


the key to (harm)ony

by SunlitGarden



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Parent Alice Cooper (Archie Comics), Dark, Dark Betty Cooper, Drunk Alice Cooper, F/M, Family Secrets, Happy Murder Family, Metaphorical Piano Sex, Minor Character Death, Murder Kink, Nick St. Clair is a dumbfuck about consent, Non-Consensual Touching, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Betty Cooper, Piano, Pining Jughead Jones, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Serial Killer Jughead Jones, Tags Contain Spoilers, then some very consensual touching for bughead, twisted happily ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-27 06:57:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20403562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunlitGarden/pseuds/SunlitGarden
Summary: Everything else falls away, even her mother, sister, and Geraldine, when he steps towards her, untethered and confident with the grace of a circulating fountain. Up close, his eyes are blue - brilliant and deep like Sweetwater River, just on the verge of a knowing wink. His long spider-leg lashes flutter as he exhales in a hum of satisfaction, and the longer she looks at him the more it feels like she’s in the tub, water rising up over her chin until she can’t breathe.“Hello, Betty,” he says with a soft, secret smile, and her heart rattles.~~~Betty resents her drunken mother's attempt to replace the recently deceased Charles with a stranger, his enigmatic half-brother Jughead. It's almost like he's waiting for the right moment to please her, to slink into her latest mystery and submerge her in something foreign: Freedom.Loosely inspired by the film Stoker





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the depravity, my friends. As always, my AU's deviate from the source material, but keep in mind that this is a romantic horror tale, almost gothic in nature. Very atmospheric. Questions and comments are appreciated and can be left at the bottom or directed to @lovedinapastlife on tumblr. Jughead is in his twenties and Betty just turned 18.

~~~CHAPTER 1~~~

The subtle crunch of the shell is soothing. Rolling the egg against her palm, Betty watches the tiny spider webs crackle across its chassis.

“You know he was picking up her present?”

“A tragedy.”

“The boy was always getting her things. Books, science kits, that kitten?”

The egg squelches under her hand.

“Probably killed himself trying to get back in time. Charles _ never _missed her birthday.”

“Then he probably shouldn’t have gone out beforehand.”

The sound of low heels approaching interrupts the neighbors’ gossiping. Her mother’s skin sags and puffs around the eyes, but not as much as yesterday. The two slightly damp tea bags she deposits in the trash were probably resting on her eye sockets last night to reduce swelling. Alice wears waterproof eyeliner and gray shadow to make the icy blue of her irises pop instead of her fine wrinkles.

Looks matter greatly to her mother.

“Elizabeth, the shoes?”

Flexing her foot, Betty feels the embrace of her converse under the table and stares at her mother, the egg slightly sticky under her palm.

“Don’t do this to me today,” Alice says, popping a pill and downing it with some water. The medicine will probably make her dizzy and more irritable without food in her stomach to cushion its powder. Lately, it’s hard to tell when her cross demeanor is due to drugs versus when she’s cross about the hands life keeps dealing out.

Betty looks back to the egg and rolls it along the table. With a big, weary sigh, her mother stomps off through the kitchen. Her presence seems to have cooled her neighbors’ willingness to gossip.

The sliding door opens, Geraldine Grundy turning sideways as if she could pass through its frame undetected. Her long straight brown hair is pulled into a low ponytail, sleek but flat, without the volume of a horse’s tail. Even though she’s wearing glasses and a modest black dress, the slit on the side, her lip gloss, and recently pinched cheeks are meant to hint at her youthfulness.

“How old are you now and you’re still getting eggshells all over the table?” Geraldine chides without any conviction, casting a sweeping glance over the kitchen help. She bends down, poking at the shedding shell as if she can gather it on her fingertips like crumbs to place on her tongue for later. “Have you gotten your shoes yet?”

Betty shakes her head. Every year on her birthday she gets a new pair of shoes from a secret admirer. They're hidden in a simple box with a beautiful bow, and at first, there had been poems as well.

Part of her always presumed it was Charles because it had to be someone who knew how to get into the treehouse, who knew her shoe size. The poems were almost _ romantic _ in nature. When Betty asked about it, her brother seemed unnerved, and from then on it was a simple, _ Happy birthday, Betty _ or some prose about adventure.

He never indicated any “illicit” actions or feelings on his part, but she knows that he loved her the way a full-blooded brother should, even if his father wasn’t hers.

Charles signed his name to an annual gift of books, which she loved just as much as the anonymous surprise. The shoes, she’d wear every day. The book, she’d carry in her mind and heart. Polly was always a little jealous of the shoes, even though she much prefers jewelry. Since the necklaces and earrings she got in their stead were always monetarily worth more than the shoes and books combined, there usually weren’t any complaints.

Now there are no more shoes. A burned book was found in the wreckage of Charles’s car. No one knows what the story was.

Although Betty doesn’t cry _ much_, she aches for the loss of her brother and his story. A puzzle she’s not sure she can solve: a brother, a birthday, a book, and a burning.

A piece of her heart will always be missing - hollow, perhaps. She doubts anyone will notice. Or care. She tries to numb the pain of her loss, the confusion, the urge to figure out _ why, _ because accidents happen. Life is a disaster. Her mother’s insistent prying has taught Betty to hide her emotions well.

Still, she digs her fingers into the egg just to feel the rubbery giving flesh and scoop its powdery yellow heart out.

~~~

“Charles Cooper was, first and foremost, a family man. A devoted son to his parents Alice Cooper and Forsythe Jones, a loving brother to his sisters Pollyanna and Elizabeth...”

As the reverend goes on about _ his found family_, the one he visited on the odd weekend, Betty turns her head to follow the rustling breeze past the gravestones and up the hill. The sun warms her face and she closes her eyes. Perhaps Charles’s remains would have been better cremated. They could let him return to the earth since the shell of his body was charred anyway. But Alice wants a tombstone. So they bury a husk.

When Betty opens her eyes, she sees something she doesn’t expect on the hill beyond. A man, alone, standing quite still. He’s tall and lean. He can’t be one of the townsfolk who knew Charles socially and she doubts he’s a lurker who didn’t have anything better to do. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, his face covered by the shade of a tree.

She squints, trying to see him better, but his features are blurred from this distance, almost warped by the heat.

A bead of sweat clings to the back of her neck.

“Betty,” Polly hisses, grabbing her hand. The impulse to yank away rears its ugly head. But not today. Not from her sister. As Betty bows her head in prayer, she tries to peek at the stranger again, who’s backing off and out of sight.

The toneless prayer falls from her lips, but her eyes remain on the empty hillside.

~~~

“Polly, Elizabeth, would you please help with the kitchen? Our guests will be coming through soon.” Alice takes a gasping breath, wet and gross, before downing a glass of what Betty suspects is champagne. It’s a bizarre choice for a funeral, although she suspects her mother doesn’t notice what she’s pouring down her throat, only that it bubbles and burns enough to make the world go slack. “_ Girls, _ please! Not today!”

“All right, mom!” Polly shoots Betty an exasperated look. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Betty can handle the snacks.”

It’s a simple task, better than greeting people. She’s not sure which expression to use. Chipper hostess? Solemn sister?

Whatever expression she has on, it’s not enough for her mother, who snaps, “Is taking care of the plates really so much to ask?” and slams a pill bottle against her palm for the rattling hope things will be better soon.

Medication’s been a sore subject in their house. For a while, Alice deemed Betty odd enough to need prescription assistance. It mostly made her dizzy and sick. Dumping the pills down the drain did little to prevent her mother’s rampaging, but when her grades and piano playing began to slip - _ that’s _when the orange bottle in her cabinet went away. Grades went up. Life went on. Her family was happy in its own little way.

Charles shined with his good looks and scholarships. Everyone flocked to him, praised him for his work with the Model UN, Debate, sports, and mission trips. Polly is the bright cheerleader, a _ toucher_, the one will smile brightly and nod and make people feel welcome. She’d gleefully scream on rides at the amusement park. According to Alice, Charles ruled with his head, Polly went with her heart, and Betty with her hands.

Most days, Betty gets the impression her mother thinks there’s something wrong with Betty’s brain and heart altogether - that her only function is to play piano and write essays, maybe weed the garden. Use her _ hands_.

Now, without their beloved _ head _of the household, Betty wonders what’s to become of it.

Strangers seep through the cracks like so many ants, swarming around the picnic, the museum of all things Charles. Their “perfect” all-American family.

Retreating to the privacy of the kitchen to restock food and plates and napkins, Betty finds the determined shuffle of footsteps and the steaming rattle of the coffee maker suit her temperament more than standing still. Tending to the trash is much more doable than the sympathetic touches, the condolences. It’s invasive. It’s obscene. Betty circles the party without ever really becoming a part of it.

It’s strange to listen to Geraldine play at their piano. The music starts losing its luster, Geraldine’s bony, lotioned-up fingers perched in a perpetual claw as she plays along the keys. _ For Charles_, she said, having tutored all of the Cooper children in the art of music. Betty’s never particularly cared for her one way or another. Although Geraldine’s sharp glances across the room seem to indicate she’d like a reprieve, to investigate and _ touch_, Betty does not feel like indulging her at the moment. Her music tutor was often tactile, often reaching. One time her hand laid upon Betty’s leg and she felt so _ wronged _ that the resulting glare sent her tutor home early and Betty spent half the day scrubbing her thigh under scalding hot water.

Since then, Geraldine stopped trying to set Betty’s hands in position. Polly never took to more than general piano and violin, a song or two memorized to show off at parties. Charles was quite a bit older, but occasionally he would play piano with Betty, simple duets and chopsticks, even though instruments never really seemed to interest him beyond their associated discipline. He’d always do little things to help motivate others, to make them better or figure out how they tick. Betty enjoys the order of a metronome. The steady tick of a thought, an action tied to a moment instead of an emotion.

Apparently, Geraldine can’t wait to investigate the lively chatter in the other room and slips away from the piano bench. She pushes up her hair to give it volume, leaving it oily from lotion instead.

In this moment, she greatly dislikes her. Taking a cloth, Betty polishes the keys of the piano, not looking up when people linger and try to engage her in conversation. It’s easier to pretend she’s busy. Once the keys are bare, she sits down at the bench, her nails gripped tight around the wooden frame.

There’s a song here on the sheets.

Her gaze bounces along the notes, not sure what’s appropriate to play. Not something classical. It’s not something that makes sense. _ The Artifact and the Living_, from that movie about fate, about people being instruments. Isolation. She plays.

The sound of laughter, inappropriate and harsh, fills her ears. It’s her mother’s. Frowning, Betty looks over to the open foyer. Her own shoes barely make a sound on the waxed hardwood floors as she follows the thread of unreality.

There’s a voice she doesn’t recognize. Almost a lecturer, a poet, his cadence is practiced. It flows steadily over her bones like a brook over stones. Her arms knit tight across her chest so there’s no chance of it seeping through.

Alice’s arm is looped in the crook of a stranger’s elbow as if she’s afraid he’ll get away, and Betty narrows her gaze on the simple connection. The stranger wears a navy button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows with striped suspenders on his shoulders. He’s not really dressed for a funeral. He stands out, tall and broad-shouldered compared to the women surrounding him. The blackest thing on him are the soft curls parted slightly to one side on his head. Geraldine touches his arm at something charming he’s said. Even Polly seems a little taken, her eyes lit up with wonder.

This is grotesque. It’s their brother’s _ funeral_.

“Betty!” Her mother looks bright, almost sparkling, like her current glass of champagne. “Come and meet your brother’s brother, Jughead Jones. FP’s son, after Charles. He’s practically your ‘other brother.’”

Betty’s gaze narrows and she’s already set her jaw by the time the man who stands above them all happens to turn. Unless her mother or father birthed him, this is not her brother. Her brother is dead.

The stranger holds little resemblance to fair Charles. He’s handsome - _ striking, _ even, but he’s not her _ family_. Although he smiles, there’s something strained about the way he inhales, the way he holds that breath as he looks at her. As his hands shift into his pockets, she recognizes him as the man from the hill.

Everything else falls away, even her mother, sister, and Geraldine, when he steps towards her, untethered and confident with the grace of a circulating fountain. Up close, his eyes are blue - brilliant and deep like Sweetwater River, just on the verge of a knowing wink. His long spider-leg lashes flutter as he exhales in a hum of satisfaction, and the longer she looks at him the more it feels like she’s in the tub, water rising up over her chin until she can’t breathe.

“Hello, Betty,” he says with a soft, secret smile, and her heart rattles.

Her frame curls protectively around herself.

“Oh, she doesn’t like to be touched,” Alice explains, and that’s the first time Betty notices that Jughead’s hand is extended down by her belly. “Can you imagine? What a curse! I’m her mother and I could never even brush her hair without a meltdown. Anyway, tell us more about your research - your writing!”

The conversation resumes but Jughead’s gaze lingers on her. His hands slip patiently back into his pockets as he occasionally, politely, chimes in with the group where he’s needed. 

Polly frowns at Betty, who remains tense and silent. “Betty, you’ve gone white a sheet. Is something wrong?”

“Our brother is dead.”

Noise falters and drops off, Jughead’s eyes gleaming with understanding. Polly looks away, Alice takes a long draught of her drink, and Geraldine quickly tries to change the subject, reaching for Jughead’s shoulder once again.

Unable to bear it, Betty escapes out of the room, aware of the way her soul feels pressed thin inside her body.

~~~

The “party” is a blur. Dissonant conversation. Betty tries not to dig her nails into her palms, focusing almost violently on keeping up with the trays. Their guests gorge themselves on gossip and snacks.

There are all sorts of stories.

Charles was drinking, like his biological father, like their mother, too, and crashed his car. Impossible. Charles rarely drank and was _ never _drunk. He was the most responsible person anybody knew. He rarely even went five miles over the speed limit.

Polly had a pregnancy scare, which is possible, but unlikely, considering she’s on birth control.

Jughead is supposedly a famous writer, and there’s much speculation about his pen name. Apparently, he was on an archaeological dig to research his latest book and got on the road as fast as he could once Charles died, thus his inappropriate, if sharp, funeral attire. Since Betty doesn’t share anything but a half-brother with Jughead, she presumes most of this is hearsay.

Also, her mother is self-medicating. That, of course, she knows.

The only common thread people are saying about Betty is that she’s still processing the death, which is strange to her, because she’s not sure what there is to process.

When Polly has to go back to school and Alice gives her a long, tearful hug goodbye, Betty walks halfway up the curling stairs and sits, waiting for the ants to disperse so she can clean the house of their little trails. Part of her is just absently guarding the privacy of their home.

“Hello again.”

Betty turns abruptly, eyes blazing as she takes in the cool, collected form of Jughead at the top of the stairs. He strikes her as the sort of person who would wander into bedrooms out of curiosity. Perhaps, like her, he prefers a quieter restroom, further away from the noise, but the question still remains how he got away and up the stairs without anyone else noticing.

He smirks, hands still deep in his pockets, and looks at his shoes. They’re clean. New. Betty feels a pang of disappointed longing. “Do you know why you feel at a disadvantage right now?”

“Is it because before today I didn’t know you existed?”

Jughead shakes his head, pushing back his long black locks before leveling her with a tight, playful smile. “It’s because you’re standing below me.”

Betty stands, turning to face him fully. They both stay where they are, his eyes shimmering with the narrow silhouettes of her frame and the banister.

For some reason, the reflection makes her feel like she’s on the precipice of a cage.

The longer he looks at her, the more unnerving the scenario grows. She’s uncomfortable with being a part of whatever silent appraisal is happening - so used to her mother’s constant digs. This stranger’s gaze slides into affection, eerily calm like she’s some doe out grazing in the garden instead of a human at her brother’s funeral. His lip curls, and that’s when she sees it - the resemblance.

“You look like my brother.” His smirk falters, which she takes as a small victory. There are infinite differences between this man and Charles, but the similarity in the way their eyes crinkle when they’re pleased must be a familial resemblance. It’s strange for her to think there’s some connection between them - any of them.

Coyness fading to quiet sincerity, Jughead has the decency to seem a little bit broken. “I am so sorry. For everything.”

“It’s your loss, too,” she reminds him, trying to gauge how close he and Charles really _ were_. Charles never talked about his _ other _family.

Jughead’s teeth climb over his lip, head down like he’s going to cry. Betty’s never seen a grown man cry before, not really. It makes her want to study him like a test.

“I wish I could’ve seen him with you, Betty. He talked about you all the time. Nancy Drew meets Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.” Jughead smiles to himself, lost in nostalgia. Fists clenched at her side, Betty wants to reach up and pluck her precious memories from his brain like so many daisies in the garden and sniff. “You were his favorite.”

Swallowing hard, she says nothing.

“But you knew that. How could you not be?” The charming smile is back, and she gets the feeling he’s baiting her to come to him. Betty grips the railing hard enough that her knuckles ache.

After a strange, tense, moment, Jughead ambles down, each step weighted. Wisps of her hair tickle her neck, fluttering in the breeze of his passing. “By the way,” he pauses, the edge of his foot lingering on her stair, “in about sixty seconds, your mother is going to tell you that I’m going to be staying with you for a while, but I want it to be your decision, too.”

Cogs tick in her head, trying to fit the pieces together. “Why?”

“Because…” His gaze flickers over her face in an emotion she can’t quite read. “It’s important to me.”

With that, he climbs down the stairwell and disappears to the right.

She stays still until her mother comes back in, wiping her streaky cheeks with a false brightness. “Oh! Elizabeth! Wonderful news, your brother’s brother – Jughead will be staying with us.”

Betty says nothing, thinking, “_He’s not my brother_.”

~~~

That night, Betty feels a cool breeze along her skin, even in her dream. Jughead stands at the edge of her bed, still in his funeral finery.

“Your mother wants me to wear Charles’s pajamas.”

Betty sits up, eyeing his outfit. It can’t be comfortable to sleep in.

“Do you know why your heart’s beating so fast?” he asks, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. She purposely doesn’t look at what other outline lays against the seam of his pressed pants. “Because I can look down on you, but you have to look _ up _at me. Just like on the stairs.” He sits gingerly at the edge of the bed. “Better?” She nods. “How about this?” he asks, climbing over her legs. At first, she panics, inhaling sharply, pulling up the covers, but Jughead slides over to lay at her side. He doesn’t touch her. With one arm propping his head up, his lashes guard something dark in his midnight eyes. “Will you let me stay, Betty?”

His breath chills her skin, nipples pebbling through her nightshirt.

“It’s important to me.”

~~~

Someone’s been in the garden. Disturbed things. She’d be more upset but Charles used to tell her to be pragmatic about these things. Hunters and gatherers. It’s the way of nature. Humans just happen to be both. She wonders if anyone took anything during his funeral yesterday - a few of the neighbors had been asking about their glassware in a way that made her hairs stand on end. It’s not like she _ cares _about the glassware, but other people caring about it rubs her the wrong away.

On her walk, Betty meanders back to the empty treehouse - but this time something is different. A white box with a neat bow catches the light. Nose dripping with overstimulation, Betty swipes at her face and climbs up the tree. She moves through the treehouse window to get to the branch it sits on. She thought there weren’t any gifts left, that Charles was the one who left them.

The world tilts a little as she climbs, a narrow, round thing. Easy to slip, to snap, like she had when she was eleven and fell from a bough during one of her adventures. That birthday she got shoes with excellent traction.

Once she has the box, she sits sideways on the thick branch and opens the precious parcel in her lap, careless of the way her white cotton sundress flutters open in the sun.

_ Curiouser and curiouser_, she thinks, staring not at a new pair of shoes, but a key with a little crown insignia.

It’s a game. Her own personal mystery.

Pressing the tip of the key to her lips, Betty stills on the tree branch and _ thinks_.

It’s startlingly normal when Jughead is cutting up tomatoes in the kitchen. Betty freezes, staring at him, the way his shoulders curve easily out of his white undershirt, the way he’s still in his pressed pants from yesterday.

“Good morning, Betty,” he says, almost playfully cordial. An egg mixture sizzles as he drops it in the pan. “Did you sleep well?”

There’s no way to control the flush of heat and steam that ripples up her lungs as she remembers her dream from the night before. “Did my mother offer to let you wear Charles’s pajamas?”

Mildly surprised, Jughead raises his eyebrows. “She did. I don’t have many clothes with me, but I wanted to wait until we could touch base before I agreed to look through anything.”

“Charles doesn’t need his clothes anymore.” She crosses her arms over her chest, already feeling her skin warm from the heat of the frying pan. “Thank you for waiting to ask, though, and thank you for making breakfast.”

“You’re welcome.” He glances at the tomatoes, the already-chopped chives, and her, in succession. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

Betty isn’t sure what to say. Everything about him draws her attention, his subtle movements and poised watchfulness reminiscent of a bug on the wall, and she can’t decide if he’s worth chasing or if she should simply wait until he disappears.

Jughead reaches into the fridge and pulls out the cream cheese. Combined with the tomatoes and chives, that’s the way she likes her omelette. He registers her noticing the ingredient and smiles, ever enigmatic. It makes her want to smash the eggs in his hands and grind the shells and cheddar into a sloppy mess. The world needs to make sense again.

Before she can move, the padding of expensive slippers against the hardwood alerts her that they’re not alone. Betty puts some distance between them. Jughead takes her cue, returning to the stove to tend to breakfast.

Alice’s hair is still sticky from the curlers and spray for the funeral, and Betty is under the impression that even the eyeliner is leftover from yesterday. “Oh, good morning! I didn’t expect everyone to be up so early. What’s the occasion?” Something is in her mother’s palm. Probably a pill. Alice goes straight for the coffee machine, which is already brewing, most likely thanks to Jughead. Her silky pajamas and robes are pastel, lacey, and ridiculously inappropriate.

Thankfully, Jughead pretends it’s all above board. “Making breakfast. I was just apologizing to Betty for my casual state of dress and she was kind enough to suggest I adopt any clothes your family no longer needed.”

“Oh, yes, Betty doesn’t mind you going through Charles’s things, do you, Betty?” The tendon in Betty’s neck twitches, as she thinks of the garden. “Most of Hal’s things are long gone or you could borrow those too. Maybe we could go shopping? I bet Polly would love to go out with us. She has _ excellent _taste.”

“What do you say, Betty?” Jughead’s gaze feels like a sheet over the rest of the room, white and airy, coming in for her around the edges.

“No, thank you.”

“Betty, really! When’s the last time you updated your wardrobe?” Alice insists, covering her mouth to obscure her little pill before she chases it with her first shot of caffeine for the day. “You and Charles, even you and Hal would go to the library or go hunting - I don’t think you ever wanted to go to the mall or even the spa with Polly and me. It’s refreshing! Good for your pores!” Of course Betty hates the spa, she _ hates _ being touched. As Alice tries to convince her, Jughead’s gaze flicks away, more eggs cracking and spilling into a pan. She smells gas. “This way it can be like...a _ family _outing. We can even get ice cream! What do you say?”

“No, thank you. I have a project I’m working on.”

Needing no further embellishment, Betty retreats up to her room and closes the door, still feeling heat on her shoulders and neck. Ice cream would be wonderful, but everything else wouldn’t. Her mother’s disappointed flare and Jughead’s wary watchfulness set her on edge.

Besides, she _ does _have a project.

Betty’s never been particularly materialistic. Her closet consists mostly of plain dresses and skirts, a few blouses, and work overalls for the garden. Still, she’s kept every pair of shoes since the first gift box stacked neatly in her closet, refusing to let them go to donation piles.

One by one she lays them out on the floor. There has to be a pattern. The shoes are all slightly different styles, from saddle shoes to Keds, something she inevitably would grow into and be able to wear every day until the next gift and phase. They’re all closed-toed shoes. Fine for walking, not terribly dressy.

She walks around the boxes, lifting up the soles, touching the worn leather and canvas of each pair. A soft knock comes at the door. Her ponytail swishes along her bare shoulders and she goes towards it. Alice doesn’t knock, doesn’t even want the doors _ locked_, even though Betty secretly does it, so she knows it must be Jughead.

The door remains closed.

“I brought you something.”

Betty’s mind goes into overdrive. _ Why _? She keeps wanting to ask. Why now? Why her family? Is it because of Charles or is it something else? After a moment of hesitation, she opens the door.

Jughead smiles at her, his head bowed in submission. “Tomato and cheese omelette. I hope I did it right.”

Frowning at his bizarre phrasing, Betty looks down and realizes that he brought up a whole tray. Besides the omelette, he put silverware, a glass of water, a glass of apple juice, _ and _an already-peeled clementine in a bowl on there for her. The flower he’s put on the side is definitely from the garden. He’s not even hiding it.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” he asks.

The peeled clementine is what throws her off the most. She hates peeling them, getting her fingers sticky, but since he only knew she didn’t like to be touched - how would he know if she was all right with germs or not?

Maybe her mother told him.

Probably not.

“No. Thank you.”

She takes the tray and considers closing the door on him with her hip. Still, he’ll be leaving soon. He’s been polite, but she’s not comfortable with the way he lingers like he’s waiting for something. That feeling of water rising up to her neck is back and she’s not sure how long she’s expected to be treading.

“I like your room.”

The silverware wobbles, tittering, as she places the tray on her nightstand. “Thank you.”

“You have so many pictures.”

She surveys the room - polaroids of her siblings’ smiling faces, supposed friends throughout the years. Just a few photos remain of her father from when she was very young and he was still around. Mostly the memories are of Charles and Polly. Her sister in a cheerleading uniform, diamond earrings sparkling as bright as her smile. Charles with his arm around his friends, old-fashioned tortoiseshell sunglasses somehow complementing his sandy blonde hair and sun-kissed skin.

Jughead leans against the door frame, his legs shuffling over one another. “May I see them? Someday?”

Betty nods. That seems safe. Some far-off indiscriminate future. Another visit, perhaps? As far as she knows, he has no need to come back.

His muscles look longer when he’s posed casually, watching. She doesn’t sit, doesn’t take a bite, her nails itching to curl into and around things. Her palms. The clementine. A metal knife. _ Perhaps Jughead’s chest - dig in to see what his heart is made of. _

She waits for him to leave.

Perhaps sensing her boundary, he stops staring so intensely and puts up the charming, playful facade. “I guess I’ll have to go shopping with the girls. It’s a shame you won’t be there. I was hoping to get your opinion.”

“Why?”

His gaze slides slyly to the corner of her room, across her gifts throughout the years. “I want to impress you.”

Swallowing hard, Betty presses her nails into her palms. Jughead notices right away, and before he can say anything, her body goes electric, fingers straightening, stiff as a board. She has to be composed.

“What do you want from me?”

He looks carefully composed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I want us to be friends.”

“We’re ‘family.’ We don’t need to be friends.”

They’re strangers. She resents the whole setup of him as some replacement for Charles. He should, too.

Maybe he does. Maybe he’s hurting like she is. A piece missing...and for whatever reason, he’s chosen _ her _to replace it.

“I have to work.”

“I’ll leave you to it. Until tonight,” he promises, offering her one more lingering glance before heading back downstairs.

It’s hours before her mother calls her name.

After their big shopping day, Jughead returns looking a little more haggard than this morning. He holds out a milkshake from Pop’s.

“Strawberry. Did I get it right?”

He knows too many details and she’s no closer to solving her puzzle. “I like extra whipped cream.” His face falls just a fraction, but when she moves closer, his pleasure creeps back in, his eyes doing that same thing Charles’s did when he was proud.

This whole dance between them is strange.

Instead of grabbing the milkshake, she pulls at the key, now hanging from a chain from her neck.

Alice huffs, rattling something in her purse. “Get the whipped cream yourself, lazy girl. There should be some in the basement fridge. While you’re down there, get the steaks. Jughead says he’s learned to cook. What did we do to deserve you?”

“Nothing good, I’d guess,” he quips, to the resounding laughter from her sister and mother.

Posture tightening along with her ponytail, Betty lets Jughead stand there with the condensation from her shake melting on his fingers and runs downstairs. It’s dark in the basement. Cool. The hanging cord of the overhead light is beaded and metal. Each tug reminds her of teeth clamping shut. The light glares on, one harsh bulb for their extra food storage. It’s a giant, swinging, globe, tethered _ just _ enough it _ probably _won’t come crashing down. Ever since she’d been able to reach it, she places her palm against the cool surface and aims it where she’s going to go, pushing and releasing. The swaying path makes her feel like she has to run or skip to the fridge before the light succumbs to its temptation and crashes into total darkness.

Still, the hum of the refrigerator and the rush of cold air is a welcome reprieve. Part of her wants to stay down here and play, have dinner to herself. Let Jughead savor his stolen memories, let Alice fawn over her new “son” and chef.

Upstairs, her shake is mercifully left on the counter unattended. Betty takes the lid off and curls the creamy vanilla dollop onto her tongue.

The shadow she’s come to associate with Jughead hovers in the doorway. “Extra whipped cream. I’ll know for next time.”

Squeaking the faucet on to run over the steaks, Betty licks her lips for a leftover taste.

She stays to observe him cook but doesn’t say much. Every time he takes a bite of anything, he hides it somewhere, almost like he’s had to stockpile for days. Despite his nice posture and extensive vocabulary, she’s under the impression the Joneses didn’t often have steak for dinner. Charles never spoke much about his other family. Perhaps he knew the bitterness Alice could harbor when trying to assert how good their own unit was compared to others and just didn’t want to bring it up. Still, it would’ve been nice to know about his brother.

Jughead almost religiously keeps going back to the recipe book, wiping his face on his sleeves so as not to contaminate the food with his sweat. For now, he lets her watch him, getting acclimated.

He has an admirable persistence.

Resourcefulness, too.

“Betty, stop staring at your brother and go play the piano,” Alice commands. Tact is not her mother’s strong suit.

Bowing her head to avoid Jughead’s curious smile, Betty goes to the piano. She lets her mother sweat it out for a minute or two. She tilts her head back in the uncomfortable ambiance of relative strangers or strange relatives in the kitchen, scanning the ceiling for any spider webs. Then, she plays.

Sometimes the songs just come out of her.

A presence rises behind her to Chopin’s melody. A dark cloud of mosquitoes buzzing, electrified. The louder she plays, the bigger the swarm. Never tasting, not when they know she can sense them. Just singing. Dancing in their ferocious mating call.

Ankles crossed, tapping the beat, Betty ignores the light chatter, the knock at the door, everything except the keys. Shadows hover in the foyer, waiting for the cue if they should be real in her world or not.

_ No_, they all decide, moving back to the kitchen. Their heels are nothing to this clamor. Their faces nothing but moving paintings.

Her own fingers look like pale fleshy spiders dancing and weaving their web on the inside of their grande piano. A new heartbeat.

As she comes to the end of the piece, she waits a moment, pulling on the invisible strings to sense movement and sound, but they’re all still in the kitchen. She recognizes one of the voices as Geraldine, who asks Jughead if he has someone special back on his research site.

“I’m looking forward to spending some quality time with my family,” is all she picks up in the quiet, but he projects enough that Betty’s sure she’s meant to hear. The inclusion is odd and careful. Then again, so is she.

“Well, if the way this meal smells is any indication of how it’ll taste, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want!” Alice cheers.

“Did your mother teach you how to cook?” Polly asks innocently enough. Clearly, she hasn’t been watching him.

“In a way. Gladys wasn’t around much, so I learned to fend for myself. Food is comfort, after all.”

They hum in approval, clamoring for a taste of something or another. Maybe Jughead seeks _ all _ of their approval. To be _ friends_.

Somehow, she doubts it.

Betty plays lightly, tapping out a half-thought dancing in her brain.

_ Is this the real life? _

_ Is this just fantasy? _

_ Caught in a landslide _

_ No escape from reality _

She keeps building her little swarm in their black speckling goodness. The plumes behind the keys rise up like their own giant fingers, mimicking her play.

_ Open your eyes, _

_ Look up to the skies and see, _

_ I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy, _

_ Because I'm easy come, easy go, _

_ Little high, little low, _

_ Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me, to me. _

Jughead’s chuckle wafts through the swarm on its own clearing breeze. “Is that Bohemian Rhapsody?”

Geraldine’s tone holds a certain derision. “_ I _certainly didn’t teach her that.”

As if it matters.

Polly laughs, singing along. Alice alternates between trying to hold a normal conversation and shouting, “Really, Betty?”

“_ Mama! _” Polly croons, eliciting some more laughter and no doubt eye rolls in the kitchen, but Betty can’t truly sense Jughead’s reaction. Maybe he’s just listening. Making something of his own.

It’s for him, this song, she thinks, hammering on the keys, vibrating at their whim. The pounding sensation swoops through her, lyrics vaguely in her head, the melody sweeping her along for the ride until the passion fades to elegant acceptance.

_ Nothing really matters, _

_ Anyone can see, _

_ Nothing really matters, _

_ Nothing really matters to me. _

_ Any way the wind blows. _

Polly whoops, coming in from the kitchen to applaud, wine glass in hand. “That was amazing! I didn’t know you could play Queen.”

Although Alice and Geraldine look less impressed, they do swoop through to greet her, the black speckles clearing out of the room.

“Very nice, Betty. Glad to see you haven’t lost your technique.”

“Find some Mozart or Chopin while we sit,” Alice ‘suggests’ with a wave of her glass.

Betty stays fixed in her seat, ankles crossed, until Jughead comes into view, the other women retreating to the dining room. He’s twisting a dish towel, collar bone slightly sweaty.

There’s an impulse she can’t quite suppress to study and smile at him. He quirks an eyebrow at her. “That’s quite the gift.”

Her arches flex inside her converse. “It wasn’t given to me.”

Alice’s voice wafts through the open dining room, tainting the edges of their conversation. “Sadly, I never learned to play. I can speak _ impeccable _French though. I’d love to go back. Instead, I spent most of my life making sure my children had the best of everything. Better than I had, it, anyway. Their future was so bright. Now, with Charles-” Alice cuts herself off. “Well, I’ll be taking care of myself now.”

“What about your daughters?” Geraldine asks carefully.

“Oh, Polly’s fine. She’ll land on her feet. She has Jason, she has internships. Betty’s more of a cat than a child sometimes, always running around doing her own thing - I never know what she’s thinking. If I didn’t feed her, I doubt I’d see her more than five minutes of the day.”

Her mother leaves out fruit bowls and portions chicken salad on occasion, but Betty’s not sure that counts as _ feeding_. She never even tends to the garden. Jughead studies Betty’s reactions, making her want to pull the blinds down on whatever’s visible of her soul - her thoughts.

Undertones of champagne bubble up through her mother’s words. “I’ll get her out of the house soon, too. Now Charles won’t be checking in on us, the house will be a lot more lonely. Maybe I’ll sell. Get a one-bedroom in the city. Travel.”

Ever the diplomat, Polly asks, “Where in France would you like to go? Maybe I’ll arrange a trip with you.”

The flurry of nonsensical French and attempted explanations make Betty itch enough to scratch her ankle with her toe.

“I like your necklace,” Jughead says, bending forward from the waist as if compliments are part of a conspiracy.

“Thank you.” Closing a hand over it serves as a reassurance of its shape. “This _ is _a gift.”

His eyes gleam and crinkle with a smile.

“Jughead, come on in! We’ll let Betty play. Make it a treat,” Alice beams at her guests, toasting Geraldine with the bottle she brought as a condolence gift.

“And let her sit out here by herself?” he questions, brow furrowed.

“She likes it!”

Polly’s curtain of gold hair shimmers as she shrugs. “She does prefer her own space.”

The dish towel slicks up whatever remained in Jughead’s hands. “What do you say, Betty? Will you do me the honor of having dinner with us?” Beyond them, Alice’s mouth twists into disapproval and Jughead’s eyes are dark with something she can’t put a finger on. Rebellion? Hope?

Either way, the food does smell good, and she’s sure it would taste better warm.

“Yes. Thank you.”

Untucking her ankles, Betty smooths her skirt before following his outstretched arm into the dining room. He pulls back a chair one inch for her to sit. Geraldine moves across from her as he comes back with the food, so Jughead’s forced to take a place between Geraldine and Alice, disappointment and annoyance barely registering on his face before he’s back to being a pleasant guest chef. Maybe Charles taught him some pragmatism, too.

Their meal is tasty. The meat is extra juicy, the potatoes slathered in butter, and Betty all but licks her plate clean.

“Betty,” her mother admonishes when her fork makes a grating noise on the plate.

“Please, let her eat. It’s a compliment,” Jughead beams. “Did I finally manage to impress you?”

Letting her silverware clatter to her bare plate, Betty shrugs and licks her lips. He laughs.

Of course, her mother doesn’t think she’s very funny and sends her back out to play piano. After a few minutes, Jughead joins her, quietly watching from the other side of the room, water goblet hanging loose in his hand. Although he draws her attention, he’s not _ distracting_. Playing around him feels more like shifting around funhouse mirrors than summoning a swarm.

“You play with confidence,” he muses, circulating the water like it’s wine.

“According to my sometimes-tutor, confidence isn’t the same as passion. Listening to me play is the same level of investment as listening to clothes tumble in the dryer.”

His tone goes tight. “Geraldine said that?”

Betty lifts one shoulder in deference. “Maybe she’s right. I happen to like listening to the dryer.”

It’s soothing - both constant and chaotic.

The light in the room seems to shift with the same gloopy glow of a lava lamp as he moves towards her. “Your playing is the most invigorating thing I’ve ever heard, second only to the sound of your voice.”

Her fingers hesitate over the keys. Jughead’s gaze is glass and steel. Sharp. Firm. Hairs standing on end, Betty’s knees draw up higher, ankles locked together.

“I’ll turn your pages.” With all the confidence of a cat with its prey, Jughead positions himself at her side. He’s much taller than her, close now, so she has to look up to steal any glances. He’s submerging in the song, relaxing like the music is a sweet sauna where he can ooze in its heat. He catches her looking, eyes crinkling with a smirk. Her ears burn. “Would you like me to join you?” he practically purrs, leaning down, near enough to immerse her in his shadow. His breath tickles her shoulder.

“No. I...” Her gaze flashes over to the dining room, where Geraldine’s narrowed eyes scrutinize them through her glasses.

“Oh, sorry,” Jughead chuckles painfully, straightening and walking around the room. “I got over-excited there with those pages. I don’t want to make things _ difficult _for you. Whatever pace you need.”

Shooting him a glare, Betty resumes playing. Her rhythm is _ fine_. If she plays a little more aggressively than before, so be it.

The night ends with an air kiss from her sister. While they say their goodbyes, Geraldine pulls Alice by the forearm back into the kitchen, hissing, “I’d keep an eye on him if I were you. I saw the way he looked at your daughter and it was anything but brotherly.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alice replies, the champagne making her bold and loud.

“Be _ careful_. I know a predator when I see one.” Seeming to remember her manners, Geraldine backs away and smooths her dress. “That’s all I wanted to say. Thank you for a wonderful meal.”

Jughead darts a glance in their direction but pretends to refocus on Polly’s last-minute jabbering about her boyfriend Jason’s party that weekend. “You should come! Meet some more people our age!”

“Maybe,” he acquiesces with a tight smile. “Take care, Polly.”

“Bye! _ Bye, Mom! _” Polly shouts, her long hair flipping excitedly before she closes the door behind her.

Body sagging, Jughead leans against the door and smiles at Betty with a fondness she’s almost certain she hasn’t earned. “You going to this party?”

“No. It’s for college kids and twenty-somethings.”

“You’ll be in college soon. Free to play whatever you want, be whomever you want.” He bites his lip, eyes beady and dark. The shiny bits of red and black in his countenance make her want to clench something in her fist.

“I am...myself.”

“Still growing. In a chrysalis shell.” His prose irritates her, as does the sappy look he’s got on his face. “I can’t wait to see how you emerge - already so lovely I’d swear you could fly.”

“Is that supposed to imply I’m a butterfly? Or an angel of some kind?” He narrows his eyes, pressing her on the question. “I think Charles is the only one of us capable of that kind of metamorphosis - should you believe in it.”

Jughead’s eyes widen in surprise, shifting to disappointed pain. “What do you believe?”

The pieces of her heart and the puzzle keep shifting into new formations, slugging through some kind of fever-dream. “I think that death is one of life’s many mysteries.”

Her limbs feel heavy he moves to the bottom of the steps to watch her retreat upstairs. Geraldine watches _ him_, lurking by the dining area as Alice reaches into her bottle of cure-alls. A stray hair lingers invisibly on Betty’s calf, one that swiping at seems to miss.

“Goodnight, Betty,” she hears, soft and reverent.

“Goodnight, Jughead.”

~~~

That night she dreams of Jughead again. This time he’s gorging on watching her eat the little things he’s harvested and hidden away. “It’s all for you,” he insists, piling it on her plate. Her knife and fork screech against the plate, red juices slopping out, only to be soaked up by some kind of bread. “Are you impressed?”

“Not yet,” she says.

Jughead watches her eat, proudly spreading open his legs. “I want to see your tongue.”

For whatever reason, she obeys, licking a long, flat stripe along the slick, juicy carrot.

His attention is almost unbreakable, she thinks. “You’re invigorating me.”

The banquet is too much. “I’m going to get sick.”

“I’ll hold your hair,” he says, and she reaches back to untangle her hair tie, letting it fall around her shoulders.

“Wait,” she realizes, hovering in the wavy aftermath. “I don’t need…this.”

His voice buzzes in her ear with the low hum of cicadas climbing through the dirt. “But you want it, and I want to give you _ everything you want_.”

When Betty wakes up, her shoes are still neatly in a line, the crown hot against her chest.


	2. Harmony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so remember that murder kink tag? Yeah. Good reminder. Things get creepier. Also...um...mini spoiler between the // below
> 
> //There's a brief aggression between Betty and Nick where he pins her on the couch and takes his belt off. She's not drugged and she's completely dressed - it's kind of like the scene in canon Riverdale and the movie this is inspired by. I wanted to let you know just in case you are uncomfortable with that KIND of situation to the point you want to skip it//
> 
> Also, playing the piano can be sexy. Send me your fav pieces in the comments because I've been binge-ing Chopin like crazy and need some fresh tunes.

“It’s going to rain,” Jughead warns her, holding out a yellow umbrella. “Will you let me drive you?”

“No. Thank you,” she remembers to add, once she hears her mother’s uneven snoring from upstairs. He’s still mostly a stranger and she has her routine. Riding the bus will give her more time to think. Knowing Jughead, he’d spend the drive trying to wheedle his way into her good graces, fluffing his dark wavy hair and watching her with far-too-knowing blue eyes.

Some things are still a mystery.

Betty walks to the bus station, aware of Jughead hovering about thirty feet behind. On the ride, she sits by herself, ignoring the snacks being tossed across the aisle, the squeak of cheap faux leather seats. The hum of a motorcycle draws her ear, but she doesn’t look until the weight of the bus shifts with everyone trying to press against the windows on her side.

There’s a man on a _Kill Bill _style motorcycle. Yellow and black. A helmet. A leather jacket. The rider looks up at her and salutes. _Jughead_. Annoyed, she turns to face the front of the bus. He revs and goes around them, speeding into the distance. She’s not sure what he’s got planned for the day but she hopes he keeps it out of her classroom and her head.

The kids at her school are fine. Sure, they cough some things about her when they think she can’t hear or react to them. In art class they’re trying to draw the human form and three boys who sit behind her keep snickering in their poor attempts to draw her likeness.

“I’d love to see that work of art. Built like a fine statue. Acts like one, too. Maybe I should ask her for inspiration,” one murmurs, not particularly creative. It’s not even what they’re _saying _that bothers her, so much as the way it’s distracting from the class.

“Who knows? She’s crazy enough, she might say yes.”

Betty’s pencil snaps against her thumb. Her sharpener shaves off a new layer until the point is round and ready again.

After school, she prickles, mortified to see Jughead leaning perched on his yellow and black motorcycle, her classmates ogling him and his wild hair, his lopsided smirk.

He’s _humiliating _her like this - mocking the line between familiar and stranger. Just because her brother is dead and her mother ignores her doesn’t mean she needs a _keeper_.

Betty hurries past him, clutching her books to her chest. “It’s going to rain,” he warns her.

“I’d rather walk.”

It does rain. Fat, anxious droplets that turn into a torrential downpour, and Betty is forced to shove all her books into her bag and run home. Even the bus would’ve been a better choice than this but she’d been so flustered that she just needed the exercise. Rich boys in a red car honk at her and drive fast enough to cause a puddle-wave as they go by. She shivers in revulsion and keeps marching into the distance. Fire in her veins is the only thing from keeping her from freezing, though her teeth chatter through what she thinks is sheer frustration. The yellow umbrella hangs from the house gate. She’s so worked up that she wields the thing as a weapon when she makes it inside. It’s an _I told you so._ She wants to beat it against the kitchen counter until its droplets spray across the windows in a vibrant burst of dew.

“Betty, you’re home!” Alice sounds _far _too happy. She and Jughead are perched on the couch, surrounded by photo albums. “We were just having some hot cocoa and going over the family albums.”

“Would you like to join us?” Jughead taunts softly like he already knows her answer.

Alice rearranges her face in forced pleasantry, the tightness in her smile is reminiscent of when she demands Betty play something more _lively_. “Yes, Betty, why don’t you put down a towel and come sit?”

“No.”

Warning exasperation creeps into her mother’s tone. “_Elizabeth_.”

“No, _thank you_.”

Jughead’s curved little smirk takes in every inch of her sopping wet form: the sweater that clings to her breasts, the skirt sliding down on her hips. Even her hair is a dark, matted mess.

Maybe he likes it.

Her converse squeak along the puddles she’s tracked into the house as she marches up the stairs.

Frustrated, Betty showers and towels off vigorously enough that her skin flushes pink. She needs to find out where the key goes. In the background, rain patters amicably against the panes, and Alice spills their whole family story for a stranger she calls _sweetie_. _Son_, even.

Delusional. All of them.

Betty tries every locked drawer in her mother’s study and comes up empty. Besides, she’d learned how to pick most of them with a bobby pin when she was ten. The lock has to be new. Something special for her birthday. Something she’s never seen before, lurking in the confines of her home.

When the phone rings, Alice finally leaves Jughead unattended to chat with the neighbors and slip something extra into her hot cocoa.

Jughead finds Betty with the efficiency of a heat-seeking missile, not even bothering to pretend to amble through the house to seek her out.

“You’re not being very subtle.”

“Neither are you.”

They stand in a stalemate, droplets still sliding from her hair down her spine.

“I can step back if you like.”

The hard way he regards her makes her lips part, tongue crackling wetly as it separates from the roof of her mouth.

Alice’s loud conversation draws them out of their heated stares.

“I already told you, Geraldine, Jughead’s not like FP, no matter how much he looks like him. He’s not going to go after her! She’s barely 18!” A pause. “Yes, yes, fine. I’ll consider it. There have to be digs in France. Maybe I could take him on a trip, get to know him better without the girls around. Not like _that_..._I’m _not a predator!”

Heart pounding, Betty swallows thickly. For the first time, Jughead looks almost morbid, lost in thought. Lightning flashes without thunder to follow.

Body coiled, tense, Betty shakes her head.

His gaze flashes tight and hot against her still-cool flesh.

Another mystery to solve.

If only she knew how to pick the lock without it prying into her at the same time.

~~~

That night, she dreams he winds her key necklace into her chest like she’s a music box.

“Will you sing?” he asks.

“No.”

“Will you play with me?”

She doesn’t answer, isn’t sure how.

“Don’t worry. We can stay just like this,” he promises. They’re both dressed to the nines. She gets the feeling they’re supposed to be at a funeral or perhaps dancing a waltz, but she doesn’t know the steps.

A subtle movement and she feels a gap, a breeze between them.

“Don’t--don’t leave me,” she begs, grabbing his lapels.

“I won’t.” A sea, a sky of blue. She’s either floating or drowning in his eyes, his hands fisting in the sides of her dress.

She wakes up and rolls over, urgently caressing her tingly, shivering body.

Maybe she’s sick.

~~~

“Have a great day at school.” His shit-eating grin has her rolling her eyes. Breakfast has become an exercise in banter. They’ve fallen into a pattern, one that never seems to cease to amuse him. She has to give him credit that he’s started to respect some of her boundaries. He doesn’t offer her a ride to school every morning, although she does still catch him occasionally riding after her on the bus. It’s strange, having this orbiting _thing _around her. Especially because the motorcycle is so loud and Jughead is so..._sly_.

There’s no mention of him leaving. Not permanently. Not even for Paris, yet, although Betty’s sure that once her mother is sober enough to plan something, that will be forthcoming.

During lunch, one of the entitled jerks who drew her in class is high and stops her from going to her usual table by holding out his crude drawing. It’s not very good, nor is it accurate. “Hey, Betty! I want to do a comparison. You think you could help me out?”

The heckling continues as she tries to walk on. Apparently, their adolescent fizzle-addled brains can’t process that she’s not interested in engaging in conversation.

“What, you’re too cool to talk to anyone?”

The pencil in her pocket is still sharp against her thumb. Part of her wants to draw blood.

“Leave her alone, Reggie,” some snooty guy with dark, curly hair says. “If you’re that hard-up to see a naked girl, try using the internet.”

“No, I want to talk to her. This Uma Thurman wannabe thinks she can just ignore everyone because she’s pretty? She’s never gonna get a man if she can’t look them in the eye, right, baby?” His ugly hand closes around her wrist and she becomes little more than raging flesh.

With a powerful grunt, she shoves the end of her pencil into the offender’s neck.

_Release_.

The push. Her body is a million coiled springs all bouncing and shoving in time.

“What the fuck?!” There’s scrambling, jumping off of bleachers, and the jock’s thick neck almost takes her pencil before she can snag it again. Reggie’s too shocked to do anything but stumble back chanting something about, “You crazy bitch!” while the curly-haired boy cackles incredulously from above.

Adrenaline thundering in her ears, Betty hurries on to her table in the back. Eating one-handed, just in case they come back, Betty keeps looking at the red point of her pencil, ready to stab again. Her springs are in place, ready to pounce.

No one comes for her, but the tall curly-haired boy offers her a smile in the hall. “He’s not dead, sadly.” Betty blinks, holding her books tightly to her chest. “But you did scare the shit out of him. Next time he tries to stiff me on a fizzle deal I’ll just remind him about your sharpened pencil, right, Blondie?”

It’s unclear if he’s being cavalier.

Next class, it’s too hard to write with Reggie’s blood congealed on the tip, so Betty carefully uses her sharpener to peel away the perfect, curling, wooden skin. Part of her wants to show it Jughead when she gets home.

Although she senses him waiting for her after school, his bike parked down the block, Betty takes the bus, savoring her secret, aware of the way he follows.

She leaves the shaving on the kitchen sink and feels his gaze linger quietly on her while she does her homework in the living room. She sits in the rocking chair to feel the easy balance of a pendulum.

“How’s your project?”

“Slow.”

He nods, turning back to his own notebook. The ripping noise of him using her pencil sharpener makes her heart run wild.

The next night he suggests she get herself some steak and ice cream as a treat for them having such a good day together. When she pads down to the basement, the air feels thinner than usual. Popping open the heavy seal on the freezer, Betty stares at the chaotic mess inside. A foot. Well, the tip of a shoe pokes out from between peas and ice cream tubs.

They’re the kind of shoes Geraldine sometimes wore.

“Too cold?” he asks, watching her with measured intensity. The steak knife is poised like he was sharpening it.

Despite the frosty breath from downstairs, Betty shakes her head. “No.”

The affectionate smile puts a skip in her step and she makes them both ice cream cones, noting that his favorite flavors are chocolate and coffee, but the strawberry is growing on him. They lick their dripping cones until her stomach hurts, until her brain feels like it’s frosting at the edges and Jughead stops mouthing at the soft ice cream long enough to hand her a napkin.

“These moments - tongue chasing ice cream streaking down your fingers, your eyes lighting up when your steak bleeds - this is the domestic poetry I always dreamed life should be.”

Dubious, she quirks a brow. “Domestic poetry?” Suckling, she manages to destroy a softening chunk of ice cream on her lips.

“Poetry,” he repeats, tapping his chocolate cone with her strawberry. Normally, she’d find this kind of intrusion repulsive, but for some reason with Jughead, it feels _interesting_. Her tongue swirls the two flavors in a long lick, savoring the hungry look he gives her.

Thankfully, her dress is thick enough he can’t see the way the cold has affected her breasts, and she closes her thighs to prevent a breeze from kicking up against her heat.

~~~

That night she dreams of Jughead dripping ice cream all over her bare body.

It’s cold and his breath is warm and she wriggles, ready to spring up and embrace him.

“Not yet,” he tells her, scooping some pink cream off of her breasts with a pointed sugar cone. “We should let the flavor acclimate.” The crunch of his bite makes her grind her teeth, needing to eat.

She wakes up with a throbbing urge for relief.

~~~

There’s a motivation in her mother that Betty hasn’t seen in quite some time. “Come to the Register,” Alice insists, tugging on Jughead’s arm. “Come play tennis. Pour me a drink.” A million little instances where she _directs_. Jughead usually manages a polite smile, tearing himself away from his writing, gardening, or cooking, his gaze automatically seeking Betty. When their eyes catch, she just subtly shakes her head or looks away.

Most of the time there’s longing in those moments, a quiet, sad desperation, but he quickly masks it with something else. Maybe he’s always wanted a mother figure, or perhaps Betty’s not close enough as a friend. The bonding between widowed mother and other-brother is Alice’s favorite new conversation piece, so she’s often trying to plan something new for them, ignoring the feral way Jughead curls around his projects every time she urges him to come away.

Maybe soon he’ll stop weeding the earth and grab Betty’s hair, urging her to _bloom _for him. She feels for him. It’s not easy to get close to her. In fact, most would argue they can’t. So she plays. Often, when he comes back, tightly-wound and quiet, he sinks into the room, melting into the rippling pond of her mind, and listens.

The clink of Alice’s drinks is too far to reach.

Betty keeps playing.

Her mother treats Jughead like a child, a new best friend, or a personal assistant. She always wants to have something vague to check off some never-ending list. An accomplishment, a relationship strengthened before she goes down for the day. Alice introduces Jughead to potential contacts with the _right _sort of people. Since he writes, she wants him to work at the Register. Betty has no relation to Jughead, and neither does her mother, yet everyone acts like he’s supposed to have been in their family from the start.

“He looks sort of like FP,” a neighbor tells her mother.

“I know,” she agrees, eyebrows raised. “So well behaved, though.”

Betty just watches Jughead’s slow-building discomfort whenever Alice tries to rub his shoulder. Lately, she’s been drinking more and combined with her pills, it makes her loopy, even in the mornings after.

“Betty, aren’t you happy to have a brother again?” she slurs, fussing with Betty’s ponytail. It’s like steel wool against her scalp.

Pulling away means losing strands like so many wisps on a husk of corn. Still, she edges, pulling at the skin of a clementine with its sticky webbing before Jughead can make a show of it. “He’s _not_ my brother.”

Milk drips languorously from Jughead’s spoon. The chill from his gaze combined with the raking violation through her hair makes her feel barren.

“You...are just..._selfish_,” Alice breathes, claw releasing its tassel with a final yank. “You’re not even human.” Tensing, Betty’s gaze traces the grooves in the wooden table, every nick, wishing they were all from her nails. “Sometimes I wonder if Nana Rose was right and I should’ve treated you like a cat - put you out to stray. I wonder how long you’d make it without anyone else.” Glassy-eyed, Alice retreats to the role of vicious spectator. “Not as long as you’d think.”

Betty leaves the table without cleaning up, without looking at any of them. The juice from the clementine sticks to her fingers, its flesh squelching under her grip. She marches through the garden, noting every patch that’s changed. The canvas of her converse is caked with dirt and dust and she can’t let go of the fruit.

She doesn’t even know what to plant, what’s been added here or lurking for years under the careful application of her brother and the landscapers. She’s supposed to notice things, _know _them. The tiny roots are sprouting up like cracks in a mirror or the veins of the fruit in her hands.

Swallowing the painful lump in her throat, Betty stalks off to the treehouse. She tosses the clementine to the corner, where it leaves a dark imprint from its juice, as she tears through the floorboards looking for a box, for a _hint_ to her freedom, to the lock, for the key.

There’s nothing there but nails and wood. Sharp enough to splinter, to stab. Defeated, Betty pushes back on the rubber of her converse heels and sits against the wall. She clamps her thighs tightly together and blinks back the sting of tears.

“Fine,” she mutters. To the universe? To herself? Drumming her head on the back of the wall, Betty’s not sure.

Tonight, she’ll dream of Jughead, the other puzzle in her life.

Tomorrow, she might not be any closer to understanding _why_. It drives her nails into her palms.

~~~

Nothing’s coming to her. The metronome kicks her with every pass. She puts her fingers to the keys and pulls them away, disappointed. It’s rare that uncertainty weighs on her like this. Her whole life there have been steps to learn, to discover, to memorize.

Jughead’s rumbling motorcycle quells outside.

She tries a chord, imagines the sharp sound of his feet on the steps. The next note sounds inexplicably like his stomp on a stone from the garden.

That’s not right.

But it’s natural.

Something’s caught in her throat. She’s not sure what it is. Tears? A scream?

Frowning, she takes a few moments to compose herself.

Her mother is gone. Asleep. At the Register. Helping Polly with a new dress.

None of that matters. She needs clarity.

The key weighs hot and heavy around her neck. Sweltering, Betty lifts it off to place the talisman on the glossy sill of the grand piano. Maybe it’s a curse more than a gift.

Betty takes a deep breath.

Slow, plodding chords, not quite where they should be, tumble from her light touch.

As she lets her mind wander, the subtle shift from motor hum to the chatter of a blade rapidly propelling forward on the breeze undercurrents everything. It’s almost like a chorus of chirping mating calls so far away they might be buried under the sprouts of grass on the lawn.

She only senses Jughead a second before he’s at her side, suspenders and shoes lightly scraping his jeans. Without looking at her, unfazed by her glare, he leans over the keys and joins her melody. Something low. Dark. Dipping below the lines.

Her chest clenches with uncertainty even more than before. Jughead plays beautifully. He makes music with purpose, studied and creeping along her simple scales. Their hands are so different from one another, hers light and small, his long and pronounced. As they plod along, taking their time with the song, Betty stares at him until he looks back, eyes flashing with something she doesn’t understand.

Pivoting, Betty presses on the pedals. A smirk touches his lips. He reaches over the keys her hands were just at - Betty almost gasping at how fast she has to withdraw to avoid his touch. She can feel him incoming with the crest of a wave. The bench isn’t meant for two, so she scoots, eyes widening when he picks up the tempo to something lively and bright.

It’s so fast. Annoyed that his foot slides over the pedal, gatekeeping, Betty glares at Jughead, then the keys, acclimating to the new melody. He smirks at her, just a hint of teeth poking through.

A challenge rears its ugly maw and Betty reaches up to chase it. The duet rapidly evolves into something effortless and organic, an improvised major.

She will not let this defeat her.

The tempo reverberates through her bones, their hands shaking as it keeps climbing, not close enough to touch - but _almost_. She steals a glance at him, his focus erupting around her, _on _her, as their eyes meet. They keep pounding at the keys, and when she turns, blood drumming in her ears, he follows, one long arm reaching around her back to pluck the keys at the other end. This time she does gasp, head tilting back in shock as his cheek brushes her ponytail. The notes keep coming - caressing and coaxing, stabbing and brutal.

Betty feels her head fill with something. Music? Water? Chaos? Passion? Eyelashes fluttering, she tilts back, fully aware of every curve so close to her body. Jughead does not turn, does not recede, his cheek still nestled against the bound part of her hair.

She wants to whine, to hate it, but she’s breaking. The hammers rise in front of them, their dark reflection in the black of the piano so beautiful she almost can’t stand it. His body is wrapped around hers, face only just peeking out beyond her ears. She can’t stop playing. Thunder brews in her veins, a storm cloud rushing through, _higher_.

Ankles crossed, she tightens, breasts aching. So sensitive that she can’t tell which parts of them are actually brushing, Betty starts to pant, the lines blurring, her gaze drawn into and beyond their mirror image.

His pulse is rising too, right along with the melody. Somehow, she can feel it. Relentlessly, recklessly she rubs her thighs together, trusting her hands when her heart and mind cannot intertwine.

Jughead’s pants mist on her shoulder, erupting her skin in prickly gooseflesh.

Eyes fluttering closed, she lets the rhythm of their union pound through the house, shake under their seat. He withdraws from around her, winding down their melody.

So moved, Betty swallows whatever is in her soul and lets it come out in a harmony. Jughead is steady. Jughead is strong.

Somehow, she and Jughead have intimately become..._one_.

His half ends, hands quickly withdrawing from the keys. Betty’s fingers still tremble, aching to play more, her song trailing into nothingness. Incomplete. Her ankles are locked tight, thighs still aching. The scream inside of her is buried so deeply that she can no longer hear what it means, only that it needs release.

Jughead stares openly, his gaze flitting much more delicately on her face than it had on the keys.

She needs pressure. She needs hands. Pounding. _Pounding_.

Not sure what to ask for, what will stop this trembling, Betty lets her posture go, chin rolling to one side to expose her neck.

Jughead leans in, looking at her so carefully that she wonders if he’ll bite her neck and suck the scream right out of her.

She closes her eyes, unable to handle the intimacy.

Bracing herself for impact, Betty flinches. Then, the bench rattles, the fog curtain of desire lifts, and when she opens her eyes, Betty is alone. The key necklace is back around her throat.

~~~

The hum of need stays with her for hours. Running did nothing. Her studies are distracted at the very least. She can’t sleep. She twists the key restlessly. Outside her bedroom, she overhears Alice fawning over Jughead.

“Oh, you look _great. _I’m sure you’ll meet some nice people at Polly’s party. Oh, and Jughead?” He pivots, clearly looking back. “If you do..._meet _somebody, don’t bring them to the house, okay? We’ve had enough guests around here for one week.”

Betty can practically _feel _his smile slithering across her skin. “Of course, Mrs. C.”

“Alice,” she corrects, pleased.

“Take care, Alice. I’ll keep an eye on your daughter.”

The heavy clomp of his boots makes Betty’s bones rattle. She’d never be approved to wear boots to a party. Once she hears the kick of his motorcycle, Betty rolls over on the bed, still feeling violated. Abandoned, almost.

There’s never been a need she hasn’t been able to handle herself. She won’t let this mystery go unsolved. Her mother’s heels and pills click throughout the house. She’s playing music from her high school days and humming as she gets ready to go out.

Everyone seems to be getting ready to get a release. Unsure what to do, Betty fiddles with her clothes. In the mirror, she’s a pretty girl. But is she lonely? Is that what keeps driving her to the brink of obscurity? Why does her mother keep taking pills and drinking to get to sleep? Where does the key go?

Flinging open the closet doors, Betty strikes through material to escape outside of herself, outside her own mind, her own desires.

When she arrives at the Pembrook, she doesn’t remember making the decision to go. Nor the outfit. It’s not even hers. She must’ve found something of Polly’s. Her calves ache from a march in unfamiliar shoes, but at least the doorman lets her in when she mentions her sister’s name. Looking somewhat like Polly gets her into places she generally would never venture.

The air in the Pembrook smells _clean_. Manicured plants are posed neatly in the lobby and Betty doubts anything as small as an aphid escapes their notice. Still, she’s not sure where the party is. Intuition tells her it’s on a high floor. So she gets into the elevator, presses one of the highest, and waits, the chime and roll of doors only adding to her general impatience and unease.

The Pembrook has the distinct air of showiness. It’s _one _of the inhabitants’ homes, not the _only_. That’s always been superfluous in Betty’s mind, but now that she’s out, she wonders if maybe sometimes people need a change in their lives. A dramatic one. When she steps in the stairwell, she senses people listening to the muted echo of each step. Someone is talking to their mistress on the phone. She passes by. A floor down, she finds the party. A few eyes flicker to her in interest as she pushes open the unlocked door. She doesn’t enter so much as get sucked into a cloud of noise and heat.

Bodies make the warmth more like a steam room - dryness sticking to her pores more than any cooling mist. Still, she moves forward, the soft material of her dress chafing her thighs, making them silken and agitated on her hunt for something to sate this strange urge.

“Betty?” An incredulous, male voice cuts through the crowd. The curly-haired boy from class is in a black blazer and crisp white shirt with his tie loosened up. “What a pleasure to see you outside of class. I thought you hated social gatherings...what with all the _peons_ and _cro-magnons_. Thought you were above all us heathens.”

“What makes someone a heathen?”

He eyes her dress, which has three open buttons above her chest. The key is slipped underneath, but he can’t see _that_. “Good question.”

“_Nick!_” Someone yells, and curly-haired boy turns. “Melody wants a hit!”

“My public is calling. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

Betty nods, embarrassed that she doesn’t know what to say. Normally, she’s content to just perch in a corner and _help _during parties, but tonight feels different. Tonight, she wants to dance. Hands curled into fists, Betty shifts through the crowd. A few people accidentally nudge her, but for the most part, she’s agile. Unbothered. She grips onto reality with deadly intention every time a vibrating touch tries to throw her off its thread.

A forest of bodies, yet it feels like stalking through fields of corn. Rustling, limited visibility, endless chatter of the bugs and people and - the new things. The sight of her sister makes Betty pause. Polly’s twisted around a tall redhead - Jason Blossom. Their mouths move over one another in passionate, slow abandon. They’re savoring a taste, licking up and preventing their arousal from spilling over the edge. Jason’s hand cups a handful of Polly’s ass, and then he spins her to grind them together in a dance. The rocking motion has Polly smiling, almost lost to their own personal rhythm. Polly reaches back to grab the cuff of Jason’s hair and slick their faces together again, their hands joining over her breast.

Betty’s heartbeat clicks like a clock in her ears. She’s so tight. She wants to unwind. She wants to feel the pressure in her palms leak out and drip all over another person, shared and smeared and..._roiling_.

Anxious, she keeps hearing snippets, but people aren’t talking so much as mating. The same black speckly feeling she gets playing music takes its form in streaks as the bass blasts through high-quality speakers. It’s meant to be played, this song, with another body. Through the throng of limbs, Betty catches glimpses of what she wants. Dark hair. A tall man in a button-down shirt. Broad shoulders. Suspenders. _Please_, she thinks, but there are so many people moving, so many little parts, that she can’t see everything.

By the time she gets closer to her goal, it becomes apparent that he’s already been swarmed. The shadows of his bone structure only highlighting the olive tone of his skin. Of course, the moths are drawn to flame the same way the deer are drawn to a pond, never mind what’s lurking underneath. His expression is shuttered as they pluck and play in their attempt to engage him in dance. She knows he needs to eat.

Hunger gnaws deep in her bones.

Their eyes meet, a tremble working its way down her sternum. He straightens, interest piqued, but continues winding around the easy prey with what they no doubt perceive as a _mysterious loner _vibe. Maybe he wants other people. Maybe she’s not the only _friend _he needs. From the slow way he smirks, he knows he’s affected her, lured her in and gotten her attention. Now he’s making her wait. He wants to watch her squirm and struggle in the attempt not to disturb the web he’s weaved, the guard she’s put up around herself.

It makes her burn. A trail of sweat trickles down her inner thigh.

Frenzied to the point she’s having trouble breathing, Betty seeks the only other person she knows who enjoyed her sting. Nick’s face lights up in surprise when she approaches, his friends all taking half a step back.

“Dance with me.”

“Uh, okay.”

Nick stumbles after her onto the dance floor. Glancing to her side, she sees the way people are dancing and bends her body to mimic it. Jughead’s lurking somewhere, unseen. Perhaps he’s actually dancing with those girls, mimicking this call just like she is. Her blood is pounding and Nick is mirroring things and it’s all a _hunt_ in this madness. If she doesn’t focus on this boy’s face, it’s _almost _what she wants. Her dress clings to her body, darkening with sweat.

“So, does this mean you’ve gotten over your thing about being ‘touched?’” Nick asks, breath sharp with whatever drink he’d abandoned with his friends.

“I don’t know yet.”

The boy seems intrigued enough to play. Rather than wait for him to take the risk, she grabs his hands and puts them on her body, not as explicitly as Jason and Polly, but it’s more than anything she’s done. His hand his hot on her hip and hers is wound in his lapel, much like the dissonant waltz dream with Jughead.

“I have to say, I’m finding this new you pretty sexy.” Nick smirks, leaning in close and rocking his hips in a way that isn’t entirely displeasing. A dark throbbing pulse is somewhere in the crowd. Maybe it’s with her, with _Nick_. The boy turns her around, just like Jason did with Polly, and Betty feels the body of someone who really _wants_ her. Not thinking about who he is, just _what _he is, Betty lets the rhythm of the song compel her. It’s mostly just rocking side to side. Still, she can’t enjoy when he tries to go to her skin and elbows him back any time he nuzzles her neck or her arms.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had to do over-the-clothes. You’re kinda kinky.” He teases her skirt further up her thigh. “I think I like it.”

Being claimed in public is _not _her kink, she thinks, and looks for a private hall to retreat to. The song is so _loud _out here she can barely think.

“You wanna go to a room?” Nick asks, following her sightline for the exit. “I have a key to one of the suites.”

“Is it quiet there?”

“_So _quiet,” he assures her, bunching her skirt in his hand. There’s an uncomfortable splotch of sweat in the crevice of her back and she’d like to use a private bathroom to clean it up.

“Okay.”

Letting her skirt fall back down her thigh with the same light shift of nylons against her cheek, Nick pulls away and lets her breathe.

“Step outside and wait for me on the fire escape. I’m the room three over on the right. I’ll let you in.”

She’s not sure why he doesn’t let her in through the front, but doesn’t question it, pushing open the sliding door and trying to ignore the ghost of his smirk in the glass. The balcony still doesn’t feel like fresh air. Betty holds herself tight, unsure what to do with this beat still throbbing in her chest. Something’s creeping closer. Looming. Automatically, Betty moves over the railing to get further out of reach, the black metal feeling twisted under her fingers. No one can stop her from her need.

Through the black grating, she makes her way onto the balcony where Nick’s propped open the sliding door. “Come in.” His expression is more openly mischievous than Jughead’s, the glint kept in his teeth rather than his eyes. “So, what can I get you? A drink? A robe, perhaps?”

She doesn’t understand the reference and looks around the posh penthouse, shaking her head. “The bathroom, please.”

“Right this way.” His fingers graze the wet splotch on the small of her back, so she hurries out of reach, closing herself in the white, bleached sanctuary of relief. Now that the music isn’t so loud, she still feels a beat, but it’s not as muggy and thick.

There’s a slightly sweaty sheen to her skin from being suffocated with so many others, frenzied. She washes her face, her neck, even her breasts and the small of her back. There’s a moment she wonders if she should dip the refreshingly cold, clean water down her underpants. But no. This will do. After towel-patting herself dry, Betty steps back out into the living room, aware that someone is watching, _hiding_.

Still scanning, Betty backs up on instinct as he descends upon her. Nick’s forearms press her hard into the wall, and she’s so confused by his outburst - that it’s _him_ \- that she doesn’t even push back. Incredulous, she frowns when he crowds her, the mugginess from the party puffing off his words. “So what exactly are we doing tonight, mini Coop?”

_Nothing_, she should probably say. But that’s not what teenage boys want to hear. He’ll laugh at her. _Nothing_ is what she does say when he presses his mouth to hers. It’s wet and hard and she has to bite to get him to back off.

“Ow!” he growls, backing up and licking at the red spot she thinks might be blood. “Fine, you little weirdo. No kissing? We can start with some more over-the-clothes touch.”

His hand is rough over her dress, _pushing_ her, his legs doing something with hers, and it takes a moment for her to realize he’s trying to pin her like a butterfly, prevent her knee from going up to his groin.

“Stop,” she grunts, not wanting to touch him, pushing back with her forearms. “You’re spoiling it.”

“Spoiling what? You _wanted _to come here.”

“Not for _this_.”

She’s not afraid of being touched right now. It’s heating her up, making her _angry_. Parts of her are being accessed she didn’t even know she had - parts she wants to _push_, _wants _to touch, if only to feel the impact of launching that coiled spring. When she can’t wiggle her legs, Betty thrusts her forehead at him, the slamming sensation secondary to the satisfying rush she gets at his shocked stumble back.

“You crazy _bitch_.”

Dizzy, pleased, she smiles. The slap doesn’t register at first, nor does the shove into the wall. Just that she’s being touched, that she’s _warm_, her body buzzing with a thousand little sensations, sprung and ready to play.

“Maybe you are a rough little freak.” There’s a red Rorschach test on his cheek where she’s hit him and it makes her want to laugh, to grunt and scream and cry and punch him gleefully until her arms tire and she can fall down, get up and dance. Nick seems fascinated. “Everyone says you’re crazy, but they have no idea, do they?” How could they, she thinks, when she’s not sure how _crazy _she is, herself? “I should tie you up and help you unwind. What do you think of that?” There’s not the sense of reverence like when Jughead smiles at her, just a boy with a magnifying glass bending down over an impressive specimen.

“Bite me.”

“That can be arranged,” he chuckles.

Blood pounds in her veins, tearing at her skin like tiger stripes.

Shoving him feels good, her skin burning where his fingers grip her bare arms until she’s sure she’s crackling, peeling back to raw muscle and bleeding. She screams, the power of it cut off as she’s thrown to the couch, breath knocked out of her lungs.

Nick hurriedly climbs over her, looping his tie into a gag. “Shut up,” he commands, trying to shove the silk down her throat. Her teeth snap and nails bite. “Isn’t this what you like? Or you just want to be held down?”

Eyes widening, Betty feels wetness streak down her cheeks. For some reason, it makes her think of the steaks defrosting under the slow pitter-patter of the faucet. She’s being suffocated under dark curtains, only slightly sheer, and she’s trapped with this _man _radiating on top of her burning all the air.

“I don’t want this,” she manages, something strangling, reaching out of her own throat. The song is a scream. A rhythm she’s not prepared for, one that rattles and shakes.

Nick just stares at her like she’s ripe and raw for the taking, removing his belt and throwing it across the room.

“No,” she says, louder this time. “Get off.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you off, too. I’m not a monster,” he smirks, a tongue unfurling in her stomach to lick at the bile and lap it back up her throat.

Her arms and knees strain trying to push him away. Panic keeps shedding her flesh in melty glops until she’s breathing with the same rate as a staccato, her knee shoving up into any part of him she can reach.

“Kinky bitch,” he chuckles, his curls looking greasy and thick as everything melts like wax. “I am, too. I know you want to fight, but you have to rela--”

A thick stripe of leather snaps around him like a collar and pulls until his eyes bulge. It’s obscene. Her muscles stretch at the sight of it. Betty watches in mute fascination as Nick struggles, fingers clawing at his own belt. Hauled back about a foot, his flesh is already burning red, veins bulging in his forehead. A cool breeze washes out the overwhelming smell of cologne. Nick suffocates on her air. It’s fascinating and horrifying up close. She can barely look away.

“_Relax_.”

She sinks into the couch, letting relief wash up like the tide on a beach, slowly rising with each pull. Jughead’s voice is soothing after the graininess of being touched and torched.

Everything seems to move in slow motion. Nick’s knees scrambling on the leather couch. Jughead’s strong arms coming into view, his whole being a beautiful tsunami ready to sweep her away in the undertow. Betty pushes her foot out of her borrowed shoe and rubs her arch along Jughead’s thighs, climbing higher.

The fresh air of his shaky sigh fills her lungs, her thighs settling to the side. A snap and then Nick slumps forward onto her.

The impact does something - the breath of life, spitting out whatever bile’s in her lungs. Jughead adjusts Nick with a firm grip on the leather belt, weighing how much she can take. A low groan escapes her throat. Her thighs ache with heat, pressure, and _need_ sliding further up her core. She’s never felt so alive. She rubs her foot along Jughead’s pants, creeping, kneading, as he leans in. From this angle, she can make out the way his eyes flutter shut, lips parting in the moment.

He tears Nick’s body away with a harsh pant, backing away.

_No_, she wants to beg him._ Leave Nick, but bring the pressure back._

Watching him drag the weight away brings back memories of Jughead hauling fertilizer and seed in the garden, sweat dripping down his forehead. His broad shoulders, lean muscle, wild, wavy hair - every curve the perfect cranny to climb, to rest, to hide a secret and escape. He’s her lumberjack and big bad wolf all in one.

The thump of Nick’s body precedes the subtle shift of dragging. Betty sits up, watching as Jughead takes one arm and hoists the dead weight over his shoulder, carrying him fireman-style towards what she can guess is one of the bedrooms. Jughead’s hips sway with each determined step, Nick’s lifeless arms a rocking pendulum, the leather belt still flapping like a long blade of grass. Betty finds her rhythm again. She chases Jughead the way the tide chases the shore.

His confidence is contagious. It’s like he’s leading her in a dance: tug Nick’s pants down, hang him from the ceiling fan, find the hardcore porn hidden not-so-secretly under his bed and spread it on the mattress. Betty watches in appreciation as he lays out every step the way a dealer puts down cards. This will ruin them. Yet part of her can’t help but be tempted to lay on the bed alongside her partner to admire this seed they’ve planted.

Heart almost _heavy _it’s so full, Betty knows it won’t be enough to look at their reflection in the sliding glass door as they exit. She _needs_ him. The realization is a burden and a relief. She feels the depth of herself expand as she meets his cool, violent stare. He’s still on the prowl, still inviting. Although her mouth opens, words don’t seem to be enough. She pulls on the key at her breast, straining the chain. Jughead smirks.

“_Relax_,” he says, and the irony is so fierce that they both start to laugh.

~~~

She’s expecting someone different and new when she looks in the mirror. Her expression is more lively, perhaps. She feels reborn. Baptized.

Peeling off her sweaty dress, Betty feels like she’s emerging from her shell. She presses her breasts, watching the way her flesh moves with each glide across her body. Her fingers trickle up her neck and into her hair, releasing her ponytail. Everything seems bigger, _stronger_, more beautiful than it’s ever been. She grazes every part of her that feels alive, need simmering in her wake. The water is steaming now, the mirror fogging. At first, her fingers feel nothing - and _then_ the urge comes. More water. Pressure. Relief.

She hops under the stream, submerging herself in it, pushing her hair back and arching her neck to let the water run down her lips. Touching herself inspires a smile, a grin. She inhales the hot mist and feels herself - feels _Jughead_. Down her neck, across a sensitive breast, and finally down between her legs, where a building heat was waiting for them. Her body is an instrument and Betty has finally been inspired to play. She warms up. Jughead’s cool focus behind Nick’s gasping face. The way Jughead’s hips and shoulders sway carrying away a body, a shovel, a plate of steak, the juices welling up on her plate. Jughead’s smiles, suckling at an ice cream cone, drawing her a pattern on the condensation of a milkshake glass.

_Jughead_.

The pressure keeps building within, sparking on more mental images of Jughead that flood her ceaselessly like the enchanted brooms paling water in _Fantasia_. Her body was a dam, but now - _now_, she knows, with _him_, it’s a waterfall.

She cries out, falling against the tile. The cold material sends shivers spiking through the pouring heat and desire.

“Ah, _ah!_ Jughead,” she pants, rubbing and rubbing to keep the power going. She’s sensitive and needy and the weight of Nick combined with the pressure of Jughead hardening against her foot -- she falls again, her fingers cramping under the pressure.

Betty stumbles back to her bedroom in nothing but her towel, letting herself air dry. The door is still cracked open and she can’t remember if she left it that way.

Feeling warm, she practically skips to bed. Tucking her shoes aside, Betty revels in the way her bare feet feel on the floorboards. Dust. She feels like she could walk right up the walls and nest.

Humming, singing, she climbs onto her bed. Jughead’s easy stroll isn’t meant to be missed. Every footstep a tentative add. The rest between them is long enough there’s time to close the door. Instead, she loosens her towel and props her leg up, smearing a cold dab of lotion along her muscles to relax them.

Her heart tightens in excitement as soon as she sees him, even as a sliver, through her doorway. It’s like there’s an electric force vibrating around him. A constant magnetic tune, a frequency only they can hear. Excited, she feels the corner of her mouth turn up in a smile that’s amplified, magnificent in his eyes.

Even though he _knows_, he leaves the door in its current position, sticking his hands in his pockets.

Feeling coy and powerful, Betty traces her fingers up the inside of her thigh. “Goodnight, Jughead.”

A shine gleams brilliantly in his eyes. “Goodnight, Betty.”

He’s watching. She’s spinning. Reclining on the mattress, Betty tilts her head back and touches the newly tender flesh that sings.

When she comes, his moan practically harmonizes, _quiet_ and vibrating deep in her bones. Her lips are still curved in a smile when she opens her eyes, half expecting him to be towering over her instead of safe in his corner. His forehead shifts longingly against her door frame.

“I kept you waiting at the party. I’m sorry.” He closes his eyes as if overcome with a migraine, the tendon in his neck throbbing. “I want you to know…” His expression is harder when he opens his eyes, determined. “I won’t keep you waiting much longer. I don’t think I can.”

Curious what he means, Betty shifts onto her side, scooting back to make room for him. With the ghost of a smile, Jughead moves in. His expression is soft, more welcoming than the pillow at her neck. She sighs in relief as the mattress dimples with his pressure.

His gaze flickers to the key on her nightstand. “So long…there’ve been these secrets inside of me, just waiting to be spilled, to be _shared _with someone.”

“In your writing?” she tries.

Mouth thinning, he subtly shakes his head. “Maybe. There, it’s easy.”

The truth eludes her, but maybe that’s to be expected when their scenario is almost what she’d dreamed. “I think I know what you mean. There’s been a secret inside of me, so deep I wasn’t even aware of it.”

He looks at her with hawklike intensity, ready to descend.

The depth of her need should scare her. So new and unusual. And yet...

“Have you ever seen a picture of yourself taken when you didn't know you're being photographed? From an angle you don't get to see when you look in the mirror? And you think, ‘That's me. That's also me.’”

“You surprised yourself?” She shrugs, her towel sticking more to the mattress than her body. Jughead’s eyes do that crinkle that Charles’s used to do again, pure affection, maybe a hint of mischief, but there’s something uniquely _Jughead _about it now that she knows him better. “You didn’t surprise me, Betty. You’re every bit as wonderful and depraved as I knew you’d be.” He slinks down onto her bed until they’re lying side by side. She could stay like this all night, she thinks.

Polly used to try to do sleepovers, but the heat of her sister’s body in the same bed always drove her mad and Betty would end up on the floor wrapped in a rug holding a stuffed animal instead.

Jughead, though, seems so relaxed. Even though they have the whole bed, they’ve crept closer since he’s laid down, near enough to feel each other’s breath. There’s an easiness here she’s never felt with anyone before. A sense of peace that goes beyond the quiet understanding she had with Charles. Her brother left the rattlesnake in her blood alone, but Jughead offers it his hand, his venom.

She thinks she could love Jughead. She thinks she does - not in the way Polly loves Jason, but in a way all her own. A treasured confidante, the harmony to her song.

“I want to stay until you fall asleep,” he tells her, voice low and quiet, a cloud drifting quietly over the room.

“What then?”

“Then, we live happily ever after.”

At that, she smiles. She hasn’t believed in happily-ever-after since she was a child. “I don’t think people like us can. We’re too smart to be happy forever.”

“You and me…_us_.” His gaze darts from her lips to her eyes. “Would you like that?”

Eyelids feeling heavy, she snuggles further in and lays her palm open on the bedspread.

“Harmony,” she muses happily.

His voice seems to nestle into the mattress in exhausted relief. “Harmony.”

They hold the moment. Then, they hold each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GO WATCH THE DUET SCENE FROM THE MOVIE. It's so frickin' good and weird and fantastic. I hope you liked the way Jughead and Betty are finding their own sick, sweet harmony. I thrive on flailing with people so please let me know what you think!


	3. The Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More murder ahead! Less violent this time. I mean, they have to relax SOMEHOW. Ha. I make jokes. Prepare for the finale, my friends, and I hope you'll let me know your thoughts on the fic!

She dreams of rolling in the wet, caving mud of the garden with Jughead.

“Too many layers,” she laments, pulling at her clothes until she’s bare and smeared, Jughead only managing to pull off his shirt before they tremble and fall in the mess, the zipper of his pants pressed hard against her cunt.

“I love feeling you bare.” His voice rumbles as he holds her close.

The mud’s too wet to crack. Slippery. Lubricating.

“Think of everything we can bury here.” He grins, his words hot and crawling in her ear. She moans. Needy, she rubs up against him, wrapping her legs and arms everywhere on him that she can touch. But the pants won’t give. Pressure and heat, she slides. The mud is cool against her skin and the friction keeps warming her up. “You’re an angel.” Jughead presses steamy, prickling kisses down her neck, sharp enough to draw out groans. Betty leans back, legs and arms spread like a starfish. Her imprint sinks into the mud as Jughead thrusts against her core.

She used to make snow angels with Polly and Charles.

Lying in the mud and being fucked until her body curls feels so much better.

When she wakes up, it’s to the sound of her mother emptying the contents of her stomach. Jughead jumps awake at the same time, his fingers loosely over hers, where her come from last night has dried.

He presses a finger to his lips, alert and serious.

Of course she doesn’t say anything. Betty feels slightly sticky when she sits up, only half-remembering to hold the towel to her breast. Jughead stalks quietly across the room, peering out. Watching him be stealthy with the same lithe gracefulness of a cat makes her want to lay back and touch herself again or lean forward and watch him with bated breath.

The toilet flushes, a swift and urgent reminder that Alice may have already or may soon pass her room. A chill curdles in her gut somewhere along a thrill. Her mother might not even have seen them. Besides, even if she had, what would she do? They’re not related. They’re both of age.

But her mother’s stirred unpleasantness in the household for far less of an offense, if that’s even what this is.

Jughead meets Betty’s gaze from across the room and it’s like she can _hear _his thoughts.

_I’ll take care of it._

She subtly shakes her head. _No, me._

For a moment, he looks like he wants to argue with her. The bathroom faucet runs. It’s his last chance to escape with the cover of water.

_Go._

Longing paints clear across his face, but then he’s gone.

Waking up with him laid across from her had been nice. Balanced. Comforting. Taking a deep breath, she swings her legs over the edge of the bed and hurries to her closet. The towel is still somewhat damp from being slept in, so Betty ditches it in favor of a sleeveless white dress with bunchy straps that her mother insisted on getting her once she got into high school but hasn’t worn except once to Polly’s birthday party. It clings to her waist and flares down to mid-thigh. She has to pull at the middle to get it properly over her breasts. It’s thick enough not to be sheer, but it is _white_, so if the light hits just right…

Fluffing her hair, Betty peers at the mirror again to see if she’s changed overnight. Besides a faint flush at the excitement of being woken up, she looks a bit peachier, more vibrant. Her hair sits a bit funny from going to bed damp, so she runs her fingers through it, letting the cool strands tickle her shoulders and back.

Polly’s old room probably has something to help with that. Or maybe it can be her excuse to check on her mother.

At the last minute, Betty decides to pull on a pair of what might be considered pretty underpants and her necklace talisman. She feels beautiful in a way that doesn’t matter most days of her life. Wild. Natural. Girlish. The meticulous ponytail and color-coordinated outfits are still in the back of her mind, but today feels like it might be her _real _birthday. A do-over.

With a deep, refreshing, breath, Betty steps out. The house seems full of sunshine, the perfect temperature. Charles’s room - Jughead’s, is shut. Safe.

She skips downstairs, humming while she prepares breakfast. Normally, this is Jughead’s forte, but he still needs to change clothes from last night. Scrambled eggs would be good for her mother’s stomach. Betty’s already got them runny and sizzling by the time Alice wobbles down the stairs.

“Elizabeth?” Her mother squints, still dazed, suspicious. “Why are you up so early?”

“I promised Polly I’d help her clean up from last night. Not that she’ll remember, or even be _awake_.”

“Oh, _right_, Polly’s party!” Slightly perkier, Alice brushes her fingers through her hair and leans on the counter. “Tell me all about it! Who did you see? What did you do?”

Fighting the instinct to grimace at the line of questioning, Betty fluffs her hair and peppers the eggs for her mother’s benefit. “Jason’s friends, some schoolmates.” Alice scoffs, rolling her eyes at the mention of the _lothario _who happens to be dating her daughter. If Jason does propose, however, Alice will probably be pleased to have a son-in-law with a maple syrup empire.

“So? Was there drinking? Drugs?”

Hesitant, Betty puts the eggs on a plate and eyes the silverware, wondering if she’d have to use a knife. For now, she pulls out a fork and places it neatly by her mother’s plate. Alice slices her breakfast into little digestible bits, wiggling her hips to make the chair more comfortable and appraise her youngest child’s ability to serve.

“It was a normal party.”

“How would you know?” Alice’s shrewd gaze has Betty averting her eyes, shrugging. “That dress...I haven’t seen you wear it before. It looks nice.”

“Thank you.”

As she separates the remaining eggs, divvying them up on the plate, Alice sucks on her silverware, scrutinizing Betty carefully. “Did you meet a boy last night?”

The spatula scratches, frozen.

Searching for a legitimate reason to be bright that would satisfy her mother, Betty frowns.

“I…”

Three heavy knocks save her from answering.

Alice looks incredulous. “Were you expecting someone?”

“No.”

“What, is it for Jughead?”

“N-no.” Betty frowns, because she can’t believe it would be.

“Well, go and get it. I’m in my _bathrobe_, for goodness sakes,” she hisses, drawing the material tight around her body like a sheathe.

It’s like her body moves outside of itself towards the door. The eggs linger in the back of her mind as she wonders if they’ll stay warm enough to eat, if she should make new ones for Jughead for when he comes down.

Panic starts creeping up her lungs.

The last time she answered the door on her birthday she was told her brother had died. She can’t take anything like that again. Not today. Not _now_.

As the door swings open, her heart sinks into her stomach. The beige circle of Tom Keller’s Sheriff’s hat greets her like a giant dull sun blocking out all other light, then thins into a tiny mountain in profile when he tilts it up.

“Betty? Mind if I have a word?”

“Of course not. Please, come in,” she says, her smile feeling garish.

“Thank you.”

She wants to throw up all over his shoes. Behind her, on the balcony, a shadow creeps like a guardian angel.

They curve back into the piano room. Her mother is standing in the kitchen, listening in. Jughead could very well be ready with one of Charles’s baseball bats. A leather belt. His suspenders.

Betty smooths her dress, hoping Tom Keller remembers her as the girl who plays the piano. Polite. Nice. Not the girl fantasizing about her brother’s brother tying his suspenders taut to strangle the local law enforcement. There’s nothing she has against Sheriff Keller, per se, but she’d feel better if he was gone.

“Can I get you a glass of water? Lemonade, perhaps?” Squeezing the sliced fruit and watching the sour juice drip would be such a relief.

“No, thank you.” Tugging at his pants at the knee, Sheriff Keller settles into one of their most pristine armchairs. “It’s my understanding that you were at the Pembrooke last night.”

Her gaze shifts past her mother’s wispy blonde hair in the kitchen doorway to the stairwell, but Jughead is not to be seen. Perhaps that’s best.

“I was, yes.” She folds her hands neatly in her lap.

“And while you were there, did you happen to interact with a Nick St. Claire?”

This is routine for him, she thinks. He doesn’t even have a pen and paper out.

“Yes. We danced for a song or two.”

A bobbing bit of blonde tumbles across the kitchen doorway and Betty has to push her nails into her knuckles to distract herself from hissing at her mother to stand still and stop digging for a story. Leaning forward on his knees, Sheriff Keller squints at her like he’s pretending to consider a painting.

“And then?”

Chuckling awkwardly, Betty pushes her hair behind her ear. “Well, not to be indelicate to Mr. St. Claire, but he propositioned me.”

“What happened next?” The clinical step-by-step almost makes her smile.

Folding her hands neatly over her knee, Betty approaches the conversation pragmatically. “Well, Sheriff Keller, I have to ask...is this pertinent to a case or are you just curious about the party goings-on? I only ask because,” she glances over her shoulder, lowering her voice and leaning in, causing Sheriff Keller to do the same, “after Charles, my mother has been of a more sensitive disposition.”

With a weary sigh, Keller nods, taking off his hat as if in tribute to her fallen brother. “I understand. I’ll be as delicate as I can. Mr. St. Claire was involved in an incident last night after the party. You were the last person seen spending any significant amount of time with him before he left. Any insights you may have on his whereabouts or mental state would be much appreciated.”

“_Oh_,” she says, feigning surprised acceptance. “In that case, if I may be frank,” Keller nods her on. “Nick propositioned me for more physical acts than dancing, some that seemed..._advanced_, to some degree.” A pop, then fizz alerts her to her mother’s morning champagne. Sheriff Keller’s glance tells her he’s noticed it, too. “As I am not inclined to participate in such activities, we parted ways.”

To his credit, Keller looks like he can handle the potential awkwardness of this conversation with delicacy. “Was he...upset?”

“He wasn’t _pleased_, but I get the feeling that Nick…” Her gaze darts shyly off to the side.

“Go on,” Sheriff Keller urges, scooting forward in his chair.

“Well, do you promise this is off the record?” Keller shrugs, noncommittal, but she goes on anyway. “He may not have been in his most logical state of mind. Nick has made it clear that he and his friends participate in recreational drugs. Their extreme lifestyle often clashes with my slightly more pragmatic one.”

“So he didn’t - he didn’t indicate to you he was depressed?”

“No.”

“But he may have been high?”

Betty shrugs, delicately plucking at invisible lint from the hem of her dress. “Perhaps he was a bit more mischievous and lax than usual. Whatever trouble he’s gotten into, I hope Nick straightens out. But you won’t-” she feigns alarm, leaning forward. “You won’t tell him _I _told you, will you?”

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Sheriff Keller pulls at his collar. “No, ma’am. Your testimony will be kept confidential.”

It’s so funny to be called _ma’am_ instead of _miss _now that she’s an adult, now that she’s _bloomed_, so to speak. She’s not sure he would’ve called her _ma’am_ before last night.

“Thank you. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, ma’am. That should be it.” He stands, hat in hand. “So you danced, he got aroused, you turned him down, and you parted ways.”

She stands up straight, feeling equal in regard. “Yes, sir.”

“Unless the St. Claires manage to keep it out of the papers, I’m sure you’ll hear about the incident soon. Until then, I can’t say any more. I hope you understand.” She nods, always polite. “Have a good day, Betty.” He tips his hat, already passing by.

“Thank you. You too, Sheriff Keller.”

As she walks him out, she catches a glimpse of Jughead dragging Alice’s champagne bottle from the kitchen counter with deadly intention. At his questioning, almost imperceptible head tilt, she offers him a conspiratorial smile. They’re _fine_.

“Give my best to your family,” the Sheriff says.

“Same. Tell Kevin I said ‘hello.’” The Sheriff’s son had a fairly obvious unrequited crush on Charles in their early high school years that had him attempting to lurk around Betty since they were in the same year. They still occasionally eat lunch together. Hopefully that relationship comes in handy.

Just as she’s about to let out a sigh of relief, Keller hesitates, looking back inside at her family. “You wouldn’t—you wouldn’t have heard from Miss Grundy, would you?”

At that, she blinks. “No. Not since the night after Charles’ funeral. She came over to comfort my mother…”

Face partially obscured by a mimosa, Alice peers suspiciously down the hallway. She seems so far away. “Jughead, top me off, won’t you?”

“I’d be happy to get you more orange juice.” His tone holds the soft edge of suggestion.

“Did I ask for orange juice? I’m wise enough to know what I want.” She flicks her head back just to get her hair out of her face, regarding him with cool challenge. “So give it to me.”

Sending Betty and Keller an apologetic glance, Jughead pours a dollop of champagne into her glass. Betty’s not sure if their disappointment is for show or not.

“Charles’s passing must be hard on all of you. I’m sorry to have to add onto this, but…” Keller sighs, putting his glasses on, her reflection long and distorted. “Grundy’s been missing. She, uh, she mention anything about an ex-husband of hers coming back to town?”

“No.”

“Let us know if you hear anything from her. Also, if you do...” He pauses, clearly uncomfortable. Betty’s expression shines in the glare of his aviators. “Stay away from her. I’ll need you to call me...immediately.”

“Thank you, Sheriff Keller.”

Birds chirp and cicadas sing as the Sheriff makes his way back to the car, his heavy boots ambling across the land. She’s still a bit dazed when she walks back into the house. _Ex-husband. Stay away from her. _She wonders what little devil lived inside of Geraldine.

_“He’s a predator,” _Miss Grundy said of Jughead.

Looking at him now, Betty’s not sure if she agrees.

“What the hell was _that_ about?” Alice’s glass flute slams down on the counter. “Something about the St. Claire’s and a cover up?”

“Mother…”

Jughead leaves the champagne bottle to fully face Betty as she walks into the room.

“And what was that comment to Keller about me being _indisposed_?” Gaze drifting downward, Betty feels her ears start to warm. Jughead keeps staring. His hands are curled, his frame hunching like he wants to shield her as a human umbrella. “If I wanted Keller to know I wasn’t able to receive guests, I would’ve let him sit on the porch.” Downing the rest of her glass, Alice slams it back down. “Guess I have to _clean up _and chase this story myself before the St. Claire’s try to pay the police off. There’s one thing they _can’t _buy, and that’s The Register. Come on, Jughead.”

“I’d like to stay with Betty.”

Straightening, hiccuping slightly, Alice glares between the two of them. “I thought you liked stories.” Jughead blinks at her, unswayed. “Fine. Ungrateful children,” she grumbles, one hand on the wall to steady her walk. Despite there being room to pass, she collides hard with Betty’s shoulder.

It’s not _shocking_, necessarily, but Betty still gasps, touching the point of contact. It was nothing. She felt..._nothing_. Numb.

Her mother can’t hurt her anymore.

No one can.

Jughead fumes, rooted the spot, his hands flexing. “She wanted to hurt you.”

“Yes.” A few seconds sit in the bizarre wonder of the moment. Jughead stalks forward, and she doesn’t know _how, _but Betty knows she has to distract him from his target for now. “Grundy.” The name halts him. “Keller said she had an ex-husband. Told me to stay away from her. Apparently, they discovered a secret.” The blue in his eyes seems weighted with her green. “We need ice cream. Not the other things.”

“We don’t need them,” he murmurs, leaning close. The curtains shift with the breeze and he feels so _close _that she can almost taste him the same way she can sense rain on the grass. “I’ll take care of it.”

The clack of heels is sharp against the stairs, rocking them apart. Betty looks over her shoulder, back to her mother, while Jughead is more prominent, broad, as they stare Alice down.

Her lipstick is brighter than it should be, hair haphazardly combed, but she’s back in skirt suits and layered jewelry, ready to take on a case - a story. Eyeliner pointed, gaze narrow, she purses her lips.

“Don’t wait up.”

They watch her until the door locks behind her and the car starts.

“I’ll be back,” Jughead says quietly, his suspenders brushing her skirt, her thigh. The material sweeps against her. She has to hold something so she grabs onto her key.

_The key._

The shovel scrapes the hardwood floors before Jughead lifts it up and over his shoulder, heading out to the garden. Betty has her own task. She wanders through the house, smiling at Jughead, who digs and waves up at her when she’s at the window on the second story by the stairs.

So strange and wonderful to think they’re made from the same clay.

Humming to herself, Betty goes into her mother’s room. She scans the vanity, the various boxes, looking for a lock, a crown. There’s the homecoming photo where her mother and father were crowned, but nothing is inside the frame, no hints to be had. Just a formerly happy life. Maybe even then they were pretending, _projecting_. All that’s here now are cream-colored pearls and capsules.

Maybe if Betty’s father hadn’t died so young, their family would be different. Maybe he would’ve taught them how to maintain the cars, or maybe Charles wouldn’t have had to leave for her birthday at all. But then she might not have met Jughead, might not have known herself.

Heavy thoughts tangling her chain, Betty wanders into Charles’s room. Jughead’s room, now, she guesses, although she’s not sure if he’ll try to merge their lives and rooms as one. For now, she feels him just on the other side of the glass, resting, reaching through, cracking the mirror keeping them apart.

Charles’s room still looks lived-in. They didn’t need to go through his things yet - the funeral was so quick that they didn’t have time. Now, it all belongs to Jughead. In some ways, if it wasn’t for Jughead’s jacket hung up neatly on the back of the desk chair, his notebooks stacked on the desk, it seems like Charles could come home.

Her heart feels swollen in her chest.

The mattress sinks, curving her back.

_Mattresses are good hiding places_.

On impulse, Betty slides her arm under the bed. At first, there’s nothing but springs. No magazines for Charles nor Jughead. Then, something cloth catches her forearm, so she scoops it towards her. A grey woolen beanie. It’s not something she’s ever seen Charles wear. The edges are unique, a crown. It’s soft under her touch, and she strokes it for the consistent purring sensation in her stomach. Going with the grain makes her feel good. Satisfied. The crown insignia makes her feel like she’s on the right track.

Emotions slightly more even-keeled, Betty climbs around the rest of the room, peering into a part of her brother’s life she never really needed. The graveyard of clues. So many little pieces of a puzzle to investigate. In the framed photograph on his desk, Charles beams, holding his sisters tightly, because that’s the kind of person he was. _A family man. _Even Betty’s genuinely smiling under his arm. He just had that effect on people, relaxing them - making them feel like they had an ally.

Now he’s sent her another in his stead, one who understands and completes the puzzle in her heart.

If only she can find the lock...

After categorizing and shifting through his things, eventually, she comes upon a box in a high shelf on his closet, one so far back she had to use the chair to _feel_, let alone _see _it.

Her arms ache from red imprints where she has to lean on the shelves to snag it, but it looks promising. The lock is built into the wood. Steel vines weave their way around the entry point. Betty steps back and off the chair to be on solid ground. Unwrapping the key from her neck, she tries it. The smooth feeling of the glide going in sends a chill between her legs.

Her present is in here.

As she twists the key, the lock popping open, her heart pounds hard and fierce like a drum pulled too tightly. A glaze of tears and snot appears that she can’t quite explain. Maybe she’s just overwhelmed.

Lifting the lid, she’s welcomed with letters. She’s not sure how many there are. Dozens? Hundreds? All shapes and sizes in envelopes addressed through the years, some through the post, some not. They’re all addressed to her.

Bewildered, she reaches deep inside and grabs one in a bright pink envelope. She scans the scrawled penmanship in wonder.

_“Dear Betty, happy birthday. You are five years old today. I wish I could be there for your party, but the bus lady wouldn’t let me on without a parent and mine are always gone. Charles says pink is your favorite color, but I’m not sure that’s right. You play the piano, right? You shouldn’t have to play your own song for your birthday. I’m learning piano, too, so that maybe one day we can play together. Tonight I’ll play you the birthday song and make a wish that next year I can celebrate with you._

_Love, Jughead”_

Dazzled, she opens another one.

_“Dear Betty,_

_Every time Charles comes here, part of me wants to be adopted by the Coopers so I can go home to you, too. He says you’re such a good sister. Much better than Jellybean, who’s mine. She’s a little brat who calls me names, sides with mom, and steals extra portions of food. But not you. Charles says you have a sense about people, that you notice things. I notice things, too. Too many things, according to my family. Does that make you feel lonely, Betty? I wonder if it makes things difficult for you, too. I spend a lot of time writing down my observations. Maybe one day I’ll make it a book and read it to you. We’re meant to be family. I can feel it. I told Charles, too, but he’s not as sure as I am. I’m glad you’re not my sister, because I think you might be my soul mate. Maybe once we’re married we can go to Charles’s games and talk and eat since neither of us care for sports. Charles says he’s sat through your recitals, but they’re not as exciting because you have to wait for other people to play. One day, I’ll be on a bench beside you. Until then, maybe we can both try to avoid being lonely. Please know that I am there with you - that we share the same soul as well as a brother. Tonight, I'll fall asleep as I try to imagine that you'll grow up and take over our name. How I want to meet you._

_Love, Jughead”_

With each word, her soul strengthens, her eyes widening in the hopes she can take in more of his. In the next envelope, dried rose petals and a few sunflower seeds slip delicately to her lap.

_“Dearest Betty,_

_Although I hate the holiday, all the talk of sweethearts makes me think of you. Charles assures me he will buy his sisters flowers - his mother, too. I am not so kind to my own family, who assure me such a gesture would be bizarre - that they’d much rather have money or jewelry, like your sister Polly. Maybe Charles will spare them some. I will have to console myself with the idea that one day I will be able to plant you a garden of all of your favorite flowers, cook you a savory meal, get you a strawberry shake or chocolate-dipped fruit for dessert. There’s a family in the park who insist on kissing on both cheeks in greetings and thanks. I think you, too, would find this custom uncomfortable, but if the embrace was yours I think I would find it exceptional. I wonder if you would, too._

_Your devoted Valentine, Jughead”_

Looking at the sunflower seeds, Betty wonders if they can still sprout. Something to make her smile. A selfless love. She unfurls the next letter.

_“Dearest Betty,_

_My heart aches thinking of the pain you must be in. The shoes I sent should be good for climbing trees once you heal, because I know you were born to be curious about things. Just like me. If only Charles could bring you here with him on his visits, I’d carry you around the house or drive you down to the riverbed on my motorbike. I’ve even got books you can read. Your favorite - Nancy Drew. Truman Capote, too. There are so many things I want to share with you. So many things I wish we could do. Charles says you’re not big enough to come on trips to see me yet, so one day, when I have my license and my bike works better, maybe I’ll come to you. I’m thinking of you, Betty. Always. Take care of yourself. I know how strong and special you are. One day, I hope we can help take care of each other._

_Love, Jug”_

“The shoes,” Betty whispers to herself, feet currently bare and coated in a fine layer of dust. Her toes curl, her heart singing, brain twisting and knotting and making connections as the words fly in front of her in snippets, in symphonies.

_Merry Christmas. Happy Tuesday. I just needed to write to you._

_You are the only woman for me, I’m sure of it. I ache to think of how others get to see you blossoming._

_“Today is my birthday and Charles gave me a present: a photo of you and the promise to bring us together when you’re 18. I tend not to like birthdays, but this one, I’ll treasure, just as I treasure that Charles gives you a piece of me to support and stay with you throughout the year. Wear out my love while we both grow stronger. These letters are just chapters in our story. I’ll keep writing. For you - my silent and invisible partner. Though I never receive a letter back, I see your messages in the stars or in the music I hear. You always will be, have been, and are so special to me, my beloved._

_Yours always, Jug”_

The splat of a teardrop on paper makes her gasp, pulling back to wipe it away before it soaks through.

He loves her.

Charles _did _bring them together. It’s almost like it’s fate.

There are dozens more and she wants and _needs _all of them. Unable to properly read, not wanting to ruin them with her tears, Betty hurriedly puts the precious beanie, letters, and trinkets into the box for safekeeping and gets up off the floor to bring them to her room.

The creak of the door downstairs makes her heart beat faster. Abandoning the box by her bedside, Betty rockets down the stairs, tears forgotten in her ecstasy. Jughead’s attention jerks upward at the sound of her rapid descent. There he is, waiting - he’s been waiting _so long_ for her. Before she can even think about it, she’s running off the edge and his arms are waiting to catch her and she’s _home_.

“Jughead,” she breathes, arms wrapped around his shoulders, his knotted into the small of her back for support. Their whole bodies move in harmony. She wants _everything_.

Angling her face, Betty can’t help but note the way they _fit_. Every breath, every nook and cranny. The kiss is the purest form of emotion she’s ever been a part of. His lips are so soft, so giving and smooth. He cradles her against him, arching his back as if she’s the very curve, the key he needs to function. Their mouths pucker, lingering, even as the kiss ends.

They’re both trembling as her feet make their way back towards the ground. He hesitates like he’s not sure if he should let her down. To reassure him, Betty nuzzles her nose against his, nothing but pleasure rippling through her soul.

“I love you, too, Jughead Jones.”

His face crumples, eyes watering. “I love _you_,” he says, voice quiet and wobbling. It’s too much and not enough and she’s swimming in love, even as he picks her up and kisses her the force of at least a decade of longing. She lets it wash over her, sweeping her away. She doesn’t care where.

Vibrantly aware of his hands on her lower back, Betty wraps her legs around his waist. Paintings rattle and end tables shudder under the weight and pressure of their love. His hands are all over: her neck, her waist, her thighs. Somehow, it’s not enough.

“I want to read all of them - I want to feel you buried inside of me - plant every seed you’ve given me.”

Teeth scraping her neck, Jughead groans.

“I’ll give you everything. You’re a part of me. You complete me.”

“Yes. _Yes_.”

Her thighs squeeze tightly around his hips, back arching so her breasts push into his chest. Their hearts should merge. Their souls.

With a messy, passionate kiss, he pulls away. She hopes his fingers leave bruises.

“I have to wash my hands,” he says regretfully, eyes trailing longingly over where her skin is still warm from his touch. Curious, she reaches up, and at first, she thinks maybe her skin really is peeling away for him. Then, it hits her that it’s soil. From the garden. She laughs.

“Come.”

She goes with him, obliging, her hand linked in his. They go to the nearest sink. The large metal basin gleams invitingly. Jughead turns the faucet, water spitting smoothly from the tap. Although he lathers, his long, masculine hands slowly shedding the soil, Betty waits. It’s not that she doesn’t want her hands to be clean when she rubs them all over him. The light layer of earth he’s put on her skin comforts her. She wants _him_ to be the one to wash it away. Following an instinct no one but him can truly understand, Betty slips under his arm and presses her back to Jughead’s chest.

He stills, slowly sinking into her, his arms squeezing around hers.

“Mm,” she moans happily, laying her head on his shoulder.

“You’re so beautiful.” A fleck of cold water splashes up from his open palms and onto the bare skin of her chest, making her gasp. The shock of it sends shivers down her spine. A strange sense of satisfaction. She closes her eyes and rubs herself against him.

Reading her body, her depraved soul, Jughead squeezes his fingers over the slope of her throat, a few droplets paving their way down her skin to the valley between her breasts. The heat climbs from deep within her veins, the chill from the water sinking its fangs into her skin to meet it.

Adjusting, Betty turns her face to admire Jughead’s focused gaze, the fine feathers of his eyelashes. Blue eyes meet hers in what feels like a kiss before he scoops water plentifully over her breast.

“Ah!” She arches sharply up, the mini waterfall lingering like a slap across her skin. It’s not meant to cool her. In fact, she knows it’s meant to do the opposite. Her dress goes sheer, clinging wetly to her skin. The rosy peak of her nipple strains under the white cloth. “Jughead,” she murmurs, clinging to his sweaty undershirt, one hand wandering down his leg. _Look_.

He keeps milking her body for groans - palming over her dress, squeezing her throat so water drips like an open wound down the speckles on her flesh.

Gasping, treading water, Betty sinks her nails into him. The hiss in her ear makes her desperate enough to shrug out of her dress and shove it down to her waist. Jughead stares at her in mute awe.

_Keep going_, she urges, laying her head back on his shoulder and tempting him with a kiss. They’re both groaning, his jeans bulging under her hand, her breasts growing firm under his fingers. It feels like the beginning of life and the end of the earth. Heat squeezes between her legs, under her palm. Fed up with the material between them, Jughead unzips his fly and takes a moment when her head leaves his shoulder to tug off his white tank top.

As he comes back, slamming her forcefully against him with one palm hot on her hip, Betty cries out to the god of love. Water flows, broken out across her body like a cold sweat. She fists his length, the muscles in her body shifting and vibrating to make way for molten lava to rise.

“Jughead,” she pants, limbs no longer under her control. She’s melting into him, desperately rubbing his thick cock, needing a crescendo. Their reflection is just barely visible in the kitchen window, the garden freshly planted just beyond. His gaze locks with hers, his hand skimming under her dress to help with that final crack of pressure she needs.

Every glance has been leading up to this, Jughead reaching the deepest, most intimate part of herself. It’s slick and slippery and perfect. His teeth grind in her ear. “Betts…” The name reaches deep down inside of her, eliciting a long, lusty moan. Hips jerking, he thrusts her against the counter. Hopefully she’ll bruise. Warm liquid pumps out of him, spilling over her fingers and baptizing the kitchen in streaky white clumps. It’s shocking and wonderful. Some secret revealed just for her - glorious and splendid.

She can’t catch her breath in her ecstasy. Lips parted, brows contorted, Jughead keeps pushing into her, fingers dancing intricately over her clit. The breath of her love covers her in a fine mist, the gas, his touch as the kerosene. She aches, pressure spreading through her whole body until she realizes his come is dripping down her fingers much like the water spreading down her chest.

Crying out, Betty convulses in his arms, _taken_, swept away in the undertow of Jughead. Her little cries, their bruising grips, all of it is harmonized by the vibration of his satisfied near-growling hums against her.

This is ecstasy.

_This_ is touch.

The heavy click of the lock freezes them both. Panic seizes her heart, shoving it down to the roots where her knees feel just about ready to give out. Jughead stays hunched over her, his breathing labored, guarding this precious thing.

Creaking, the door opens, then smacks against the wall.

Pushing back against him, Betty hurriedly pulls her dress back up over her shoulders, aware of the icy chill that will be sheer against her skin. His come sticks, hopefully blending in with the white material of her dress. Fumbling, she helps Jughead with his undershirt, his height forcing her to go on tip-toe. There’s a firm glare in his eyes that she doesn’t have time to respond to. _I can handle this._

She doesn’t want to. _Not yet._ Heart pounding like a jackrabbit’s, she tugs his jeans back up and tries to think if they have any aprons she could cover up with.

Her mother will _see_.

She’ll _see _and she won’t understand, and what her mother doesn’t understand, she’ll try to destroy - to pick apart. She’ll hate.

That doesn’t matter, but —

_But—_

Alice’s clops stop in the doorway to the kitchen and Betty’s heart clenches, her body frozen in motion. Jughead is the only one who has any elegance left in this dance, turning to regard her mother evenly. A lump moves in Alice’s throat as her bright, pale blue eyes shift in a cutting zig-zag across both of them.

The water keeps pouring behind them against the sink’s steel.

“What’s this?”

Betty’s throat feels swollen, like her esophagus is made of ice.

“Betty was just helping me wash up.”

Alice’s gaze rakes over Betty’s rumpled dress. “I see that.”

Betty’s arms come up to cover herself on instinct, Jughead’s expression flickering dimly in disappointment before returning to the dull neutrality necessary for dealing with Alice. The stalemate feels more suffocating than any amount of distorting heat.

There’s a shift in her mother’s expression, a snapping shut on the processing end. “I think you ought to leave.”

“Mother—”

“Elizabeth,” she warns. “Go to your room.”

“I’m eighteen, you can’t send me to my—”

“Go to your room, _now!_”

Her heart rages in its cage, nails digging harshly into her flesh. _No_.

“It’s all right, Betty,” Jughead says softly, wiping his mouth. He meets Alice’s blind hatred with an even stare. “Your mother and I should have a chat.”

“Oh, no. You and I don’t need to _chat_. I know exactly who you are...and what you _want_, and it’s _not _to reconnect with your _family_.” An unexpected sniffle slithers through the room, Alice pushing the back of her hand against her nose. “Not to support us, anyway. No one—no one ever supports _me. _No one cares about _me. _I did everything for you! I introduced you to the right people, I bought you new clothes, took you on in my home!” Alice stops counting off on her fingers and throws her hand up in disgust, “Well, I hope you enjoyed eating _my _food and fucking _my _daughter on your brother’s grave. What was it? Did you like the extra challenge?” Alice’s gaze strikes Betty like a slap. “I thought you didn’t like to be _touched_.”

Betty presses up against the counter, unsure what to say, a wet tug indicating that Jughead’s come is sticking to the back of her dress.

When neither of them speak, Alice lets out a bitter laugh. “Last night, he was the one— of _course _he was the boy who made you want to dress up. Guess the allure of the Jones men is still going strong. That bastard couldn’t even bury his son, let alone raise one. He certainly couldn’t handle _me_, and now the cycle _continues_. Users. You just couldn’t keep to yourself like you always do. You _had _to suck the only good thing that’s come out of Charles’ passing into some twisted game. You ruined it.”

Arms crossed, holding onto her shoulders, Betty glances at Jughead. She wants to touch his shoulder. She wants to hold him. They’re ruined and beautiful.

His assuredness laps steady at her soul. “Go, Betty. I’ll be up to see you soon.”

“Juggie…” He inhales deeply, eyes fluttering closed.

A harsh scoff cuts the room. Alice tosses her bag onto the table. “A nickname? Really? I didn’t realize you two were that _close_. Well, besides _this._” Inhaling deeply, Alice grabs her champagne bottle and takes a brutal gulp. The champagne buzzes as she tears it from her mouth, practically foaming when she points the end of the bottle at Jughead, who seems nonplussed. “You better be packed and out by the time I get up. I thought you were a good boy.” Her voice breaks, tears springing to her eyes. “I thought Betty would stay out of the way. But of course not. You betrayed me. You both _betrayed _me!”

The bottle shatters with a resounding crack, crashing the kitchen in a pale sickly spray, green shards glinting menacingly from the floor.

Slicing them with another look, Alice hauls a fresh champagne bottle off the shelf and stumbles, half-crawling up the stairs. “Get upstairs, young lady! _Now!_”

Shivering, Betty turns to her lover. “Jughead…”

“It’s all right,” he promises, palm grazing the fine hairs on her forearm. “It’ll all be over soon.”

“Over?”

“No more waiting.” He presses a kiss to her forehead, the stab of her mother’s heels on the wood beating in his promise.

Heart pounding, fingers streaking on the rail, Betty climbs up the stairs. Her knees aren’t as sure as they have been. It’s not from the rumbling throes of a good orgasm. It’s from the idea of the future. She never even factored anyone else into their little world. Pausing halfway up the staircase, Betty surveys the bedrooms of her family. For the first time in her life, all of the doors are open.

There’s only one that’s a grave.

Somehow, that feels open, too.

The beat of Jughead’s presence is upon her. He watches, waiting.

Without meeting his gaze, Betty marches forward. She has to. They can’t linger in this in-between. She runs through different scenarios, mentally packing the essentials they’d need, the money in her account from her father’s trust, from Charles’ passing. Or would it be more prudent to keep Jughead a secret?

_No more waiting_, he said.

Drawers screech off their rails in Charles’s room. _Jughead’s_. Shifting her gaze downstairs, Betty wonders if he can hear.

“Mother,” she starts softly, edging into the room, knowing that Alice will lash out like a caged animal. But better at her than at Jughead.

Alice is a blur of pastel, all elbows and twists as she wrenches clothes from their hangers. Charles, Jughead, it’s a tornado of dress-up. All the men in her life have been invisible at some point in Betty’s life and now her mother wants to erase them altogether. To replace them with what?

Lost in thought, Betty only looks up when her mother glares. There’s nothing she could possibly say to make this seem sane. Quote Wuthering Heights?

_Whatever souls are made of - his and mine are the same._

Their love is not a tragedy.

Alice yanks a wisp of hair from her mouth, pushing the rest back. Her shrewdness seems almost eerily conversational now.

“You know, I've often wondered why it is that people have children in the first place,” she steps over the array of shirts and jackets on the floor, “and the conclusion I've come to is that at some point in our lives we realize that things are fucked up beyond repair.” Betty picks a spot on the floor and stares. A pocket bulges, full. “So we decide to start again. Wipe the slate clean. Start fresh. And we have children - little carbon copies we can turn to and say, ‘You will do what I could not. You will succeed where I have failed.’ Because we want someone to get it right this time, for chrissake.” Stepping forward, Alice trips over a stray hangar and tramples some clothes in her attempt to right herself. A crunch reverberates through the room. Something’s cracked. Her mother doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, simply sweeping a manicured hand through her hair and steadying herself by grabbing onto the champagne bottle atop the desk.

It sounded like glass. But no one keeps glass in their pockets - not really. _Glasses?_

Alice glares, swirling the champagne bottle contemplatively on Charles’ desk before letting it stand upright. “But not me. Not me, my darling…” Taking another beat, Alice stalks forward, commanding the room. “Personally speaking,” she spits, words dripping with venom. “I cannot _wait _to watch life tear you apart.”

Then Alice yanks the champagne bottle by the neck, dragging it off the table. She waits by Betty, staring at her daughter with such unflinching disgust that it dries her eyes of grief. A sidestep isn’t too much for Betty to keep the peace. Besides, it gets her closer to whatever lies broken on the floor.

To her credit, Alice doesn’t knock Betty as she passes, only pausing to eye her daughter with bitter shrewdness. “Don’t even think about sneaking that Jones boy back into this house. I’ll figure out what to do with you later. Maybe I can talk to Polly about finding you a place to stay.” For a moment, Betty thinks her mother is _back_ to some extent. The appraising gaze. The straightened posture, determined eyes, ready to take action. “I hope he was worth it.”

Mouth falling open, Betty watches her mother saunter back to her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. Vibrations from the impact don’t quite reaching her. They fall short, somehow. The lock clicks shut and the ringing in her ears starts to quiet.

With every step around the disheveled clothing, Betty tries to catalog what’s Charles’s and what’s Jughead’s. She’s not sure if it matters where any of them end anymore, but she distinguishes what she can all the same. Pinching the material of the coat pocket that had crunched, Betty stares at the shattered remains inside.

_Charles’s tortoiseshell driving sunglasses_.

In _Jughead’s _coat.

Part of her wants to believe that Charles left them in the room, that he happened to carry them in one day and just forgot to bring them to the car the morning of her birthday, that’s not the way her brain works. Instead, a screaming urge with the pressure of a fist works its way up her throat.

These were his driving sunglasses. They never left his car. She saw Charles put them on the day of her birthday. He’d looked so striking in his blazer, behind the tortoiseshell steering wheel cover on his vintage, beautiful car. Sunlight highlighted his fair features when he smiled at her, taking a moment. The image of her standing in the garden reflected back at her in those glasses before he turned, the sun striking out everything else.

He had these glasses when he died.

Jughead..._Jughead_ was with Charles when he died.

A letter promised that Charles would bring Jughead to her on her 18th birthday. And yet...reports indicated that he was alone in the car when it was recovered. If the accident was as bad as they said, the glasses would have been destroyed.

Maybe it’s a duplicate set. A match. Something the boys would share.

Betty closes her eyes, gripping the glass frames tightly enough that they creak. She can feel them strain like tendons on the wrong side of her skin.

The churning puzzlement in her mind ripples and foams as she goes into auto-pilot, gathering two armfuls of clothing to put onto the bed, tidying the rest. One task at a time. One puzzle, one solution.

There’s no song so much as a metronome ticking incessantly in the back of her head.

One sleeve in. Then the other.

She keeps to the beat.

Even her steps are measured when she carries the carefully zipped overnight bag downstairs and marches to the kitchen, where Jughead is mopping the floor. He frowns at the baggage, concern deepening when he sees that jacket.

“What’s that?”

She holds out the bag by the straps. When he makes no move to take it, she lets it plop, heavy, swollen, to the floor. It splays unattractively, almost obscene.

The wooden handle of the mop clicks, leaning against the counter as Jughead turns to face this, the bag laying like a body between them. His gaze flickers to the beanie poking out of her pocket.

Even though they’re on even ground, Jughead’s height still inspires some kind of thrilling vertigo compared to Betty’s. She feels almost dizzy. Annoyed, she crosses her arms and fists the soft material of his coat across her palms. Fingers twitching, Jughead stirs the silence.

“I need to tell you about the jacket.”

She stretches her neck, staring him down.

Blinking once, Jughead tilts his head back like he’s wetting his brain with his own thoughts. His neck cracks before bringing it back. “I need to tell you about Charles.” There’s a very human uncertainty in the way his breath catches as if he’s not sure what to say, the way his brows knit and sway, the way his lip curls down. Those tempestuous blue eyes are probably the biggest giveaway.

_Guilt._

She wasn’t sure he’d have any.

The pressure of his heavy sherpa jacket on her damp dress seeps a chill deep into her bones.

“Tell me.” Her voice is much softer than she expected it would be. Not _kind_. Not demanding, either.

She can’t look him in the eyes for this. Not yet.

“Betty,” he pleads, stepping towards her, trying to angle around so the bag is no longer between them.

She takes a step back. “Just _tell _me.”

Wiping his palms on his jeans, Jughead nods firmly. “Okay.”

Microscopic shards glitter along the mop threads. Jughead’s breathing is labored, but firm, waiting. Holding herself together, Betty pivots and looks into the eyes of her lover.

“I had to do it.”

The words shatter her resolve and pull her under. A deep, dark, _cold _place. Trembling. Unraveling and dripping. The love of her life murdered her brother.

“He _promised_, Betty. He promised that if I waited for your 18th birthday that we could all be together. I spent _years_ learning skills so that I could provide for you. I was good. I was _so good_ because I wanted to be _worthy _of you, and then…” The heels of his palms press into his brow, a heavy, wet mist pouring out of him with each heaving breath.

“Tell me. I need to hear it. I need to know...all the pieces.”

Forcing his hands to his side, Jughead sniffles long and hard. “On your birthday, I was packed. I was _so _excited,” he laments, brow furrowed. “And then I noticed we weren’t headed…” He closes his eyes. “He wanted to bring me to an apartment. Said he’d pay for everything and even give me a remote writing job as long as I stayed away from you - as long as I stayed away from his _family_. I-I thought he loved me. I thought he was really trying to help me. But he didn’t want me to be happy. He didn’t want _us _to be happy.” Betty’s chest aches at the thought, her eyes watering. “I asked him what you said about me and he said he...he said he’d been stealing and hiding away your letters. Every single one. For a gift to give back to me, an anthology to show me how I could channel my passion. The shoes I bought you, he delivered. Thought it was something that helped instead of..._hindered_, I guess.” He wipes his face with the back of his hand, streaks drying quickly. “Charles reasoned that if I had this _goal, _I’d be motivated to better myself, to stay clean and get out of the trailer park. In some ways, I guess it worked.”

It takes him a minute to wander through the past.

When he looks up, his eyes are clear. “I couldn’t let him keep you from me. I followed him home on the motorcycle he bribed me with. Before we got there, he spotted me. I wasn’t even thinking. He pulled off the road, we got into a fight. The accident was staged.” Lips parted, Jughead spends a moment just _pleading _at her with her eyes. “I killed him, Betty. I killed him because it was the only way we could be together.”

A flurry of sounds pound in her ears. The heavy thud of Jughead’s bag hitting the floor, the sputtering kick of the motorcycle thrumming to life, the sink launching water in a straight stream right down the drain, and the crunch of her brother’s favorite riding glasses.

She’s still reeling, skin stinging when she realizes his hands are gently cupping her face, wiping away her tears.

“Everything I did, I did it for you. For _us_.” Her head bows in a sob but he holds her up, moving closer in concern. “I love you.” It _hurts_. “I’m so sorry. I know you loved him, too.” _Did she,_ she wonders. _Did he love me? _“But he didn’t _know _you - he wouldn’t let you be free.” Jughead’s whisper burns her ear. “Be free with me.”

Letting out a low, distant wail, Betty twists into her murderer - her lover.

~~~

Water pounds steadily behind her into the porcelain tub. The remnants of green tea seem to slick to her teeth. Not in color, but in flavor. At the mirror, she leans into the towel laid out on the vanity and sticks out her tongue. There’s a faint stripe of mossy green amidst the pink.

_Interesting_.

Tilting her head, Betty repositions the bobby pin she used to pick the lock back into her bun, making sure nothing is displaced. It’s all very neat. The white bathroom, the dark gray, marbled tile. Steam wafts like a low mist, but the door is open, so it’s not enough to open her pores very much. Her mother always said one should open their pores to get the toxins out, then close them tight again to keep the youth _in_.

Twisting, Betty looks at her mother in the bedroom, limbs sprawled, unwaking and pale. The empty champagne bottles offset the little orange prescription bottles in an almost color-coordinated way. They have a housekeeper come in once a week. Tomorrow.

The vases need to be cleaned.

Tugging her hair once more, Betty steps back to stir the tub. A frothy foam slowly emerges, circling high above the steel plug of the drain. The smell is coconut-lime. Not Betty’s favorite. She doesn’t think anyone but her mother was a big fan. It’s almost sickeningly sweet and citrus, but she can stand it for a few more minutes and doubts she’ll ever come across it again after tonight. After a few more minutes of listening to water chug away, Betty takes a washcloth and twists the faucet. It squeaks shut to silence.

Betty approaches the bed.

This is the only part she’s been somewhat unsure of. She can’t drag her mother by the sheets. Can’t carry her under her knees and back. Betty tentatively taps her mother’s arm. As expected, no response. Alice stays firmly rooted in her champagne dreams.

Yanking on Alice’s wrist, Betty manages to get her shoulder under one arm. She attempts to raise her mother to some extent, one arm wrapped around her waist. First, they sit up on the bed, Alice’s head rolling forward. Then, getting to her feet proves a lot more difficult. She’s _heavy_. Dead weight.

After a particularly terrible attempt that results in both of them falling back to the bed, she _oofs_.

Jughead appears in the doorway, beanie on his head. It makes him look less wild, somehow. Although she misses the dark locks freely spilling along his brow, having them tucked up so safely has its own charms. She wonders if he’s done cleaning Charles’s room. His calculating look tilts to the edge of curiosity. “What’s this?”

Huffing, Betty readjusts. “I can’t get her up.”

“To where?”

“To the bath.”

“Ah.” He smiles warmly at her, hands tucked into his pockets. “Smart.”

When she doesn’t attempt to rise again, he toes off his boots and comes in. She feels like a child sitting on the bed before him, even with her mother weighing heavily on her side.

“Would you like some help?” Heart pounding, she says nothing. With the subtle touch under her chin, she tilts up to accept the sweet kiss on her forehead, a syrupy warmth working its way down her chest.

“It’s—it’s supposed to be a gift,” she admits, cheeks flushing.

He thumbs her lip, his eyes crinkling in adoration. “Betts.”

They don’t need to say anything else. She shifts uncomfortably beside her mother, so Jughead wraps his arms around them both. It’s unusual. Betty double-checks her mother won’t awaken at someone so close to her face, but she’s still gone.

“On the count of three. One. Two.” Rocking back, Betty feels the resistance of a piano push pedal springing up as they rise, _three_.

Although her shoulder still bears some weight, it’s clear Jughead is taking the brunt of it. They manage to get Alice to the tub, slip her feet into it. The bubbles fizzle at the disturbance.

“You sure about this?” he asks, eyebrow crooked along with his lip.

“Don’t look.”

Breathing a laugh, Jughead turns his head to the side as Betty removes her mother’s nightgown. Once that’s done, she gently pushes her into the warm, waiting water.

“Am I safe?” he asks, tone dubious.

Rearranging a few bubbles, Betty is satisfied. “You are.”

Her mother’s neck rests at an unnatural angle. She’d be sore in the morning if left there all night. Actually, it might be a relief to Alice that she so often wore waterproof makeup.

Jughead’s fingers creep into Betty’s palm. “Are you sure about this?”

Nodding, she looks up at him. Their fingers intertwine. “We’re going to be free.”

Betty takes a washcloth in her free hand and pushes down on her mother’s blonde, near-white hair until water kisses the tips of her fingers. Jughead grips her hand tighter. They watch the foam resettle before turning to one another.

There’s something entirely calming about the way he looks at her tonight.

His eyes are shining, throat bobbing with emotion. “I love you, Betty Cooper.”

“Jughead Jones,” she begins, absorbing the wonder that is his caress against her jaw. “I love you.”

~~~

“I have a gift for you, too,” Jughead admits quietly, presenting her with another white box.

“You already…” At his determined look, she gingerly takes the box from him. Maybe love is an occasion to be trading gifts beyond a birthday. Curious, Betty lifts the lid.

Another pair of shoes. Her breath feels suspended. They’re heels - the first she’s ever received - _black _and beautiful with an ankle strap custom made to look like a crown.

“Will you...be my queen?” Jughead asks, gaze darting shyly to the side before he gets on one knee, shoe in hand, crown beanie atop his head. His gaze is hopeful and sure and loving and she feels absolutely _wild_.

Every line seems to point to him. It’s certainly a better moment than Cinderella’s prince gave to her.

“Yes,” she answers, hushed. From her perch on the edge of the bed, Betty shivers as his hands skate carefully along her calf, guiding her feet into their new sheathe. At her moan, Jughead’s eyes flash up. Burning. The second shoe goes on a little more roughly, Betty’s thighs splaying open in invitation.

“Betty.” He’s growling, gruff, prowling as he removes his hat and sets it on the nightstand. She doesn’t even move back until his breath fans across her neck. With one savory, lingering, kiss, he shoves her down until she bounces off the bed. Pinned by one knee between her thighs, Betty licks her lips and wiggles in anticipation. Although she enjoys it sweet, she likes it rough like this, too.

Feral.

“Kiss me,” she demands. With a dangerous smirk, Jughead yanks off her dress. It’s not a kiss, but she raises her hips to let him free her of everything but the heels.

His eyes trace her like she’s a new piano piece waiting to be memorized, played, explored. He rips off his tank top.

And then he kisses her - right against her cunt. His tongue probes, hot and exploring, conducting her moans and muscles until he has to hold down her thighs.

“Juggie!” she pleads, eyes closed. She wants to write him a letter about giving pleasure - how she’ll get on her knees in the middle of their next duet and suck him off until his fingers leave the keys to steady her head enough to thrust down her throat. The favors they’ll do for one another - the gifts they’ll give.

Everything’s tight and aching and then the vibration of his hum combined with his eager fingers pulls out a screaming, pulsing melody.

Arching her back, Betty plucks her own breasts, watching as his eyes flicker hungrily from one nipple to the next. “Juggie. Kiss me.”

Saliva and come drip thick on his tongue, lingering as he finishes lapping her up. His tongue disappears, the creamy liquid receding to the safety of his mouth before he presses a quick, reverent kiss to her cunt.

Her heel hits his belt, his hands soon following, fumbling, shoving, until he’s bare. Tracing his erection with her toes, Betty watches in wonder at how much they _want _one another.

“Betty,” he cues, and she opens her arms.

It’s a flurry of limbs, of kisses, of _heat_. Maybe it’s messy, maybe she’s clean. She’s _full_.

Jughead’s so deep inside of her that it feels like being broken down - digested and savored and sunken in desire.

“I love you,” he repeats, breath hot on her skin. The ceiling fan blades twirl above them. His hips thrust rhythmically against her thighs, the breeze fanning her hair back from her face. Part of her hopes that he smashes whatever is inside of her to bits so they can put it back together again. “I’ve always loved you.”

Her breasts jiggle with another impact. She digs her nails and heels harder into his flesh, loving the wild way he moans.

The weight feels good. Right. Even though his back is ripe with the same stickiness that comes after peeling a fruit, she craves it. So much touch. Everywhere. No barriers. She’s not worried about him planting anything inside of her. It doesn’t matter.

They’ll be free now.

Forever.

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the lovely beta @jandjsalmon for helping me navigate the creepy corridors of my mind and to @theheavycrown for her fantastic graphics for this piece. What do you think of that happily ever after? Yay! I think Polly would just want money instead of the house or maybe Betty would move out and live with Jughead in his apartment after high school. Either way they are totally getting a garden. Anyway, I welcome all thoughts and hope everyone gets a fabulous pair of shoes and an orgasm and has a magnificent day!

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to @jandjsalmon for being my beta. Thanks to the talented, fabulous @theheavycrown for making this fic's fantastic graphics. They fully support my Mathew Goode crush and I appreciate that.
> 
> As always, I thrive on your thoughts and comments so please leave them below. Any passages give you the feels--creepy or otherwise? Predictions? Concerns? Love??? I want it all!
> 
> This'll be three parts, each one coming out a few days within the last


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